Carry You Home
by SpiderFangWolverine123
Summary: Set after the events of Spiderman: Homecoming. After everything that happened with the Vulture, SHIELD is interested in Peter. Of course, only in non-painful, non-invasive ways. At first. His captivity stretches over the course of three months, and when he is finally rescued, the Peter they find is not the same one who was taken.
1. Taken

**Carry You Home**

_After the events Homecoming and the altercation with the Vulture, Peter is officially on SHEILD's radar. Enduring three months in their not-so-tender care, he has to find a way to recover, with the support of Ned and MJ, his Aunt May, and, of course, Tony Stark. _

* * *

**Taken**

"_How fast was that, Karen?" Peter panted as he landed heavily on the fire escape outside his bedroom window. _

"_Seven minutes and forty-three seconds. That's a new personal record, Peter." Karen said. _

"_Oh, nice!"_

"_Yes, it's very impressive." Karen agreed with a chuckle in her voice. Peter opened his window quietly and crawled in. He carefully checked that his door was shut but winced when he saw the light was on in the hallway. That meant that May was still up, presumably because she found him gone and was now waiting to rip him a new one. _

_Peter crept over to his door, cracking it open and peering out. If May was awake, he'd go in, admit everything, and beg for forgiveness. If she was asleep, though, maybe he could change into an old T-shirt and wake her up, pretending that he'd been out on the fire escape or something and fallen asleep. She might see through that, but it was worth a shot._

_Surprisingly, the kitchen was empty, all chairs vacated. There was a little note propped up on the counter, and Peter went over to read it. "Emergency at the gallery. Might not be home until morning. Call if you need __anything__! Love, May." _

"_Anything" was underlined three times. _

_Peter rolled his eyes but laughed, too relieved to be annoyed at his aunt's overprotectiveness. It was like when she'd found out about him being Spiderman, she only worried about him more, even though he could take care of himself way better now that he had all these abilities. Still, at least he didn't have to worry about worrying her tonight. _

_Peter went back to his room and painstakingly peeled off the suit, checking for any bloodstains he'd have to scrub in the morning. He didn't find any blood, which he took some pride in considering the amount of ass he'd kicked that night (couple low level thugs harassing an old guy for his wallet), but there were a few weird looking bullets stuck to the back plate. Like someone had taken a shot at him while he wasn't looking, but he definitely hadn't been shot at. Right? He was pretty sure that no one had shot at him that night. _

_Like, at least 90% sure. _

_Shrugging, Peter rigged it back up into the alove in his ceiling, figuring he'd check the damage in the morning. Worst came to worst, he'd have to ask Mr. Stark to patch it up for him. Pausing for a moment to actually consider the absurdity of asking _Tony Stark_ to fix the bullet holes in his superhero suit, a smile spread across Peter's face. His life was so cool. _

"_Night, Karen," Peter said as he slipped off the mask. _

"_Goodnight, Peter." _

_The mask he slipped into the same place he always did, tucked under his mattress for easy access in an emergency. Then he collapsed into bed half dressed, pulled the sheet over him, and fell into a heavy sleep. _

_Peter dreamt of a busy street, cars rushing back and forth at an incredible speed. He knew he had to get to the other side, but the crosswalk wasn't working and he couldn't see any breaks. The cars were moving so fast they were just blurs, and Peter wasn't sure he would make it through without being flattened. _

_He glanced to the side, and saw an old man sitting on the ground next to what looked like a park bench. The man was sitting, rocking back and forth with a toothy smile. Peter heard an odd noise and looked at the man's hands to see him holding an old metal can and a needle. The man was brushing the needle up and down the rippled sides of the can, eliciting a scraping, clicking, grinding noise that somehow didn't fit with anything else going on. _

_Peter was drawing closer to investigate when the man opened his mouth. "Alpha team in position," The man murmured. "Preparing to breach." _

_A sudden feeling like ice on the back of his neck yanked Peter from sleep, and he sat straight up with a racing heart. Listening, he could still hear that scraping, clicking noise from his dream, but now it was coming from his front door. It was real. Not a dream. _

_Peter reached down and tugged the mask over his face. "Karen," He whispered, hurrying over to his door and opening it a crack. _

"_Yes, Peter?" Karen's voice was soft, following his lead. _

_Peter spotted the doorknob to the front door, turning and moving slightly with whoever was out there. "I think there's someone trying to break in." _

"_Let me activate thermal vision," Karen said, and suddenly Peter could make out the red outlines of four, five, six, eight, at least ten figures outside his front door, with one or two crouched at the lock. _

"_Holy shit," Peter breathed. What kind of robbery was this? One ordered by the mafia?_

"_Peter, perhaps I should inform Mr. Stark. He would want to know if someone is putting you or your aunt in danger, and that seems like quite a few assailants for you to take on by yourself." _

_Peter hesitated. He knew that he should. Knew it was the smart decision, the one that Mr. Stark and May would tell him to make. And yet, he knew that if this turned out to be something stupid, Mr. Stark would be so mad at being woken up at 2:34 in the morning. _

_Of course, if May had been home, he would have called for help. He wouldn't dare risk her safety because of something dumb like this. But… He was alone. May was safe at the gallery downtown, far away from this mess, probably wouldn't be home until ten o'clock or so. It was just him here. So there was really nothing to lose._

_And besides, how cool would it be to say that he took on ten intruders by himself and won?_

"_Just hold off on that for a bit, okay, Karen. I don't want to wake him up for nothing."_

"_I don't think Mr. Stark would consider this noth-"_

"_Just wait, okay?" Peter kept an eye on the front door, pulling on a pair of pants and a t-shirt as he did so. At the last minute, he realized it would probably stupid to fight them with the mask on and a t-shirt, because then they might realize that Spiderman lived here, especially when he started kicking ass. Maybe he should take off the mask, but then the ass kicking would still give him away… So maybe he should just put the whole suit on-_

"_Breach." _

_The front door flung open, and the first few figures came pouring through the door, guns up at the ready. Peter snatched the web shooters off his nightstand and slipped them on, taking cover out of sight before they came near his room. _

_Heart pounding quickly, Peter watched the reflection in his mirror as they approached. One of the figures, dressed head to toe in black, almost soldierly gear, turned towards his doorway and paused. Peter could have sworn they made eye contact, but that was nuts, cause he was hidden-. Oh. Right. Reflections._

_Peter ducked to the side as the man shouted and squeezed the trigger, shattering his mirror. Peter lunged into the doorway, sending a web to the man's hand and yanking the gun to the side. He whipped it into the face of a soldier approaching on the right, and then jumped through the partial partition into the kitchen, where three more had just entered through the front door. _

_Peter slid over the table, bare feet connecting solidly with the chests of two of them, jumping off them and onto the shoulders of the third. He felt the hairs raise on the back of his neck, sensing a threat, and instinctually leapt down, using the man as a shield. He heard a few low pops, and the man went limp, slipping through Peter's arms to the floor. Before Peter could decide if he should feel guilty for indirectly causing the death of someone that was attacking him, he noticed that there was no blood, only a few needle-like vials sticking out of the man's shirt sleeve. _

"_What the hell?" Peter asked, and then quickly had to do a backflip up to the ceiling to avoid the other darts being shot at him. _

"_It appears they are not firing traditional bullets," Karen commented. _

"_Yep, noticed that," Peter agreed tensely, firing a quick web blast into the shooter's eyes before dropping down and delivering a punch to the temple that knocked him out cold. _

"_What is that, six down?" Peter said, turning to face three more ambushing him from the side. He dodged the punch of one of them, planning to grab the second and swing around to kick the third, but the first guy surprised him with a follow up knee towards his chest, sending him stumbling toward the wall. Within an instant, the second guy was there, driving an elbow toward his face._

_Peter dodged to the side, shoving him in the direction of his momentum to knock him off balance, but the soldier recovered quickly. As he danced around the other two, trying and failing to overpower them, it occurred to him that they were a lot better trained than the average thug. _

_Still, a lucky hit downed one of them, and then some quick thinking with a web and lamp took out the second. The third he took down with one of those badass scissor-neck-grip moves he'd seen Black Widow do a couple times. Turned out it was even more fun to do than watch. _

_Peter stood in his trashed kitchen, fragments of a few chairs and and a cracked dining table scattered around him, and reveled in the high of victory coursing through his veins. "Take that, assholes!" Peter shouted, pumping one fist into the air. _

"_Yes, very good, Peter, but you should probably call the authorities now." Karen sounded amused. "And perhaps come up with a cover story as to how one teenage boy managed to beat up a whole gang of hostiles." _

"_Oh." Peter thought for a second. "Well, I guess I thought I'd-" _

_Glass shattered, boots crashed into the floor, a dozen guns started firing at once. Peter dropped to the floor, taking shelter behind the toppled kitchen table. Gasping, he figured that more of them must have crashed through the windows from the fire escape. As crazy as that was. _

"_So this must be Beta team, then," Peter said through gritted teeth. _

"_Peter, I really think I should call Mr. Stark. This situation is rapidly declining, and-" _

_Harsh static sounded in his ears, and Karen cut off at the same time that the lights went off and the readings in his mask blinked out. For a moment there was nothing but complete and total darkness. _

"_Shit, shit, Karen?" Peter whispered, huddled down, listening for the sound of approach. She said nothing, and the only thing Peter could think of that would knock out all the electricity, even Stark tech, was an EMP. A pretty tough one. In fact, it would have to be basically military grade to completely wipe out Karen, who was protected by software that was supposed to make it impossible to shut her down. _

_You know. Theoretically. _

_Peter felt rather than heard the careful, quiet approach of a few soldiers on either side of him. Without thermal vision, he had to rely on touch and sound to make out where they were, but he waited until he was pretty sure he'd clocked their position before he launched himself over the table and into the pair on the right. He nailed one guy right in the jaw and kicked the feet out from under the other before sprinting for his room, eyes locked on the window. Now it was just about escape. Forget pride, forget how cool it would be to take them all on. Just get away._

_Peter was starting to catch onto the fact that maybe the only thing they were after here was him. _

_As he ran for the window, he caught sight of an arm swinging in his direction. He dodged to the side to avoid it, only to have someone tackle him from the other side, taking advantage of his distraction. Peter thrashed under the full weight of the soldier, starting to shove him off until another two grabbed his arms to immobilize him, and more piled on to hold him down. _

"_We've got him, sir," One soldier spoke into the radio at his shoulder. _

_Another soldier raised his gun at Peter, in what he assumed was an unspoken threat, until he pulled the trigger and hit him in the shoulder with the force of a nail gun driving into his flesh. Peter shouted in pain and struggled anew, but felt his strength being sapped by whatever was in the darts. _

_A few of the soldiers turned on headlamps so they could see, and it was enough light for Peter to spot a man walking into his house, past the busted door, over the splinters of tables, through the shattered glass on the floor. His shoes stopped near Peter's face, clear despite the dusty ground, finely tailored and smelling like a new car. He wore a suit with shiny gold buttons, and stood with his hands in his pockets and a satisfied, smug smile on his face. _

_Peter hated him immediately. _

"_Nice to finally meet you face to face," The man said with a politician's smile. "My name is Thaddeus Ross." _

_Peter glared up at the man from behind his mask and was helpless to stop him as he crouched down and pulled the mask from his face. Behind the mask was the face of a sixteen year old boy with blood trickling out of the corner of his mouth. His eyes were tight with fear and pain, but he didn't let out so much as a whimper. _

"_Peter Parker," Ross said softly. "We have a lot to discuss." _

_With that, Peter felt a second dart strike him in the leg, and the last of his resolve dissolved along with his consciousness. _

Peter jerked awake in confusion, head spinning wildly. He blinked his eyes, looking up at the glaring lights above him, trying to figure out if the events that just played out in sharp images behind his eyelids were merely remnants of a nightmare, or a true event that he'd been recalling. Based on the unrelenting metal braces clamped around his wrists and ankles and the fact that he had no idea where he was, he guessed it was the latter.

Peter turned his head to the side, inspecting the walls around him, but could make out nothing but dark metal walls, its surface riddled with small ridges and bumps. He pulled at the metal restraints, testing for weaknesses, but found none.

Glancing down, he noticed that he wasn't wearing the spiderman suit anymore, only a pair of gray scrubs. No webs, no Karen, no magic Stark tech to help him out. These people clearly knew him. Knew that he might be able to contact help with the suit. Knew that he wouldn't be able to break out of Vibranium cuffs. God, what else did they know?

Did they know where May was? Would they go after her, too?

Peter closed his eyes, reigning in his growing terror, and tried to listen. The only sounds were his own soft breathing, the buzz of the lights above him, and the tapping of some wiring in the walls. As he strained to hear something useful, the tapping grew louder, more echoed, and doubled, tripled, until Peter realized that it wasn't wiring his ears were picking up. It was footsteps.

Peter looked to the front of the room, realizing that the wall and door facing the hallway was clear, made of some kind of reinforced glass. He watched as a man with greying hair stepped into view. His icy eyes and shiny buttons were familiar, as were the uniforms of the two soldiers he had with him.

Ross stepped into the room with a swipe of a card and a high pitched beep. The door slid open and stayed clear as the three visitors entered. Peter felt his pulse quicken when he saw the escape route so tantalizingly close. And yet absolutely unreachable.

"Peter. I apologize for the… uncomfortable introduction," The Secretary of State said, standing by Peter's feet.

"Nah," Peter shrugged off the apology. "I was in need of a good night's sleep anyway."

Ross's lips twitched in a humorless smile. "I'm glad you feel that way."

Peter glanced around the room. "What's with the five-star lodgings?"

"Peter, have you ever heard of an organization called SHIELD? No? We act as a buffer between what we refer to as Abnormals and Normals. Our goal is to protect people, help those that we can, and minimize the damage to those out of our reach. Part of that goal includes screening Enhanced individuals that we come across."

"Screening?"

"Investigating," Ross amended. "We'd like the chance to learn about you, Peter. In non-painful, non-invasive ways. We'd like to learn where your abilities came from, how they work. And if you cooperate, you'll find your vigilante work supported by the American government and backed by the operatives of this team."

"What's the point?"

"Many of the technological advancements we've made have come from studying Enhanced people like yourself. We've made giant leaps in medicine, manufacturing, technology."

"And weaponry, I'm guessing," Peter threw out casually. "Nothing like an army of superhumans to spice up a war."

"Of course we've made improvements to our defense system," Ross laughed. "How could you expect us not to?"

"I never did," Peter said.

"Glad we're on the same page," Ross stated, as if they'd come to some kind of agreement. "Peter, there are some tests that we'd like to run on you. Your cooperation would be much appreciated. If you comply with our requests, you'll be home in time for dinner."

"If I don't?"

Ross's icy smile never faltered. "I think you'll find your stay to be significantly more lengthy."

A third soldier dressed all in black entered the room, pushing a metal wheelchair in front of him. There were more cuffs on the arms and legs, hanging open as it rolled.

"I hope you understand our caution," Ross said silkily. "One can never be too careful."

"I couldn't agree more," Peter agreed with a smile.

One of the soldiers approached, unlocking the clasp over his wrist and opening the restraint. The other soldier did the same to his other wrist. The last soldier watched apathetically, looking bored with the procedure, but Peter still noticed his hand resting on the firearm at his side. Just as the last restraint was opened on his ankles, Peter jolted into action.

He grabbed the first soldier's shoulders, using him to swing himself around and kick the second soldier in the head. Despite the man's helmet, Peter delivered an impressive blow that sent the man sprawling to the ground. He landed on the ground, crouched, and was lunging for the open door when a terrible claw of electricity raced down his spine. Peter collapsed against the cold linoleum floor as the web of agony spread through his body, zapping to the end of his fingers and toes. The initial shock faded, leaving behind only a resounding ache.

Peter lifted a feeble hand and reached for his neck, finding a tight collar clamped around his throat. Metal prongs bit into the skin on the back of his neck, two pinpricks of pain he hadn't registered until that moment.

"Ah, holy shit..." Peter gasped, breath coming shallowly.

Ross crouched beside him. "As I said, you can never be too careful." He stood again, gesturing to the soldiers who were getting to their feet. "You can take him now. I'm guessing he'll be more cooperative. And if he isn't…" The man pressed something into one of the soldier's hands. "You know what to do."

Two of the soldiers grabbed Peter by the arms, roughly hauling him up. Ross walked out of the room without a glance backward. Peter thrashed clumsily, barely managing to jostle the soldiers as they slammed him into the wheelchair. Still, the third soldier shouted angrily and slammed a hand down onto the device a split second before the agony came again.

Peter squeezed his eyes shut and fought to keep the cry of pain inside as the shock slowly faded. Every breath rattled in his chest, and his hands and feet felt numb. He heard the click of the cuffs locking into place, and felt the pressure of them on his wrists and ankles, but couldn't find his way to his limbs to move them. Not even a twitch.

The third soldier leaned down, bracing his hands on Peter's arms. "You cause any more trouble, I'll scramble your brains," He promised savagely. Peter could tell by the glint of sadism in his eyes that he would make good on that promise. Probably hoped he'd get the chance to.

One of the others grabbed the handles behind Peter and began to push him, out of the room and down the hall. Peter's head was spinning from the last shock, and his vision was blurred from the glare of the overhead lights. He was able to make out countless doors lining the hallways, some keypads to the side lit with green, others with red.

Doctors passed them occasionally, but none spared him a second glance. As if this was normal. Everyday. Procedure. When nausea began to set in, Peter hung his head and shut his eyes, focusing on pulling in even breaths to dampen the sensation. He opened his eyes again when they jolted to a stop.

They were outside a set of double doors, with no handles. There were clouded windows, indistinguishable shapes drifting around beyond the foggy glass. The soldier with the device was standing next to a panel on the wall, holding up his ID badge. There was a beep, and the doors slowly swung open.

Peter's heart leapt into his throat as he was pushed into a crowded room reeking of antiseptic. One long metal table covered with a thin paper sheet filled up the center of the room. Peter didn't fail to notice more cuffs, this time made out of leather and padding, hanging off the edges. Around the edges of the room were numerous counters and cabinets. Computers beeped, displaying illegible results, and others waiting ominously, their screens blank and dead.

A few of the figures glanced up from their work as he approached. Long green gowns draped over their bodies, and blue caps were tied over their heads. Identical masks covered their faces, leaving only piercing eyes visible. Their calculating gazes swept over Peter as though he were nothing more than a lab test, as though he weren't even human.

One figure approached, wearing thin-rimmed glasses that magnified his eyes, giving him the liking of an owl. He looked down at the clipboard in his hands, and up at Peter, fixing him in a look that made Peter feel like a bug pinned under a magnifying glass.

"This is Case 362?" The doctor verified. He leaned down towards Peter, who pressed back into the chair in an effort to stay away, but only took a look at his left hand. Peter looked down and saw a thin plastic band around his arm. The doctor twisted the bracelet, reading the tiny print on its surface, and nodded to himself. "We're starting in Exam Room B." He gestured behind him, and the wheelchair rocked back into motion, following the doctor as he walked.

The doctor led them to one of the many doors leading out of the main room, swiping his card over the scanner by the door and waiting until it beeped to press down the handle. He held the door open as they passed, and then closed it behind them. Peter heard the sharp snap and click as the locking mechanism engaged. He looked around the new room, which was only half as big as the other. A mechanical chair stuck out of the ground, surrounded by an army of machines, from which wires and sensors hung loosely.

The soldiers wheeled him toward the chair, as more personnel filed in through the door. Most huddled around the machines, checking them and murmuring to each other, but a few stood by the chair, watching Peter approach with rapt interest. Their staring made him feel sick, and the hungry look in their eyes made his heart pound furiously. No matter what they labeled him or how they stared, they seemed more inhuman than he did.

The soldiers stopped the wheelchair next to the metal chair, and the soldier with the device leaned close. "Remember what I said, right?" He hissed menacingly. Peter saw him waving the device in the air out of the corner of his eye, but didn't dare break eye contact to look. "This puppy was on a low setting. You act out now, I'll crank it up to high."

The restraints snapped open, and the soldiers wasted no time in seizing his shoulders and yanking him out of the chair. Peter's head snapped back when they slammed him into the metal chair, and his skull banged painfully against the unyielding surface. His muscles shook with exertion and leftover tremors, and there was a faint ringing in his ears. He felt restraints being fastened over his wrists, ankles, elbows, and knees, tightly securing him to the chair. Someone pulled a thick strip of leather over his waist and pulled it tight. Last, a strap was drawn over his forehead, holding it firmly to the metal headrest.

Peter realized his eyes had drifted shut when he felt hot breath blast against his face, and his eyes shot open to see the narrowed eyes of the third soldier inches from his own.

"I'll be back once they're done with you," He said, a grim smile twisting his face. "So be a good boy until then." He patted Peter on the face before stepping back with a patronizing sheen in his eyes.

Peter focused through the haze to read the man's name tag on his chest: _Capt. Marian Elliot. _The name tag flashed once as the man turned to leave, but Peter swallowed, summoning what was left of his strength to form words.

"I thought Marian was a girl's name," He croaked. The soldier froze, back still to Peter, so he pressed further. "Parent's musta been hoping for a girl, huh?"

Elliot spun around, his eyes alight with anger. One meaty fist clenched around the device, and Peter braced for the worst. Suddenly, a doctor leapt forward, placing a hand on Elliot's arm.

"You can't," The doctor protested, and Peter was surprised to hear the soft soprano of a woman. "It'll disturb the results of the test."

Elliot stared at Peter, and he could tell that Elliot was considering exacting his punishment anyway. With a deep breath, the rage cleared from his features, and his tight grip relaxed.

"Just wait 'till you're done," Elliot whispered, nearly inaudible except for Peter's accelerated hearing. "This'll be nothing compared to what I'll do to you."

With that, he stormed from the room, the other two soldiers following close behind. Peter noticed they had to scan their IDs in order to exit the room, and his heart clenched when he realized how truly trapped he was inside that room, completely at the mercy of the people who'd strapped him to the chair.

He watched the woman who'd intervened, hoping she would spare him a kind glance, but she never once looked his way. It was with a sinking heart that he realized her token protest was nothing more than she'd said. Only a wish to preserve the authenticity of the test.

The head doctor with the bug eyes stepped up to Peter's side. As if by unseen cue, the rest of the staff bustled to get into place, watching him for further instruction. Bug Eyes reached up and snapped on a light above Peter's head, sending bright light glaring down into his eyes. Peter squinted against the bright light, staring up at the figures now silhouetted against the glare, and watched as Bug Eyes raised a handful of wires and electrodes in one hand.

"Commencing test one…"

* * *

To Be Continued...


	2. Rescued

**Rescued**

The room was silent. Blessedly quiet. The air swirled around his head peacefully, minute dust mites drifting slowly down around his head. Peter watched each with passive interest, grateful for every second he was alone.

Alone was safe. Alone was pain-free. Alone was gentle, and kind, and embracing. Like a mother's hug, wrapping him up in solitude until nothing could touch him.

Except when he had visitors.

A shudder ran through his body, and Peter tried to shove the thoughts out of his mind, tried not to remember, because this was his alone-time. This was the time he could be safe and feel at peace. This was the only time he had to himself, to remember what it was like to be unafraid.

But he couldn't stop the memories, couldn't keep them away.

_Fingers probing against his skin, sticking the sensors and electrodes to him. Unblinking eyes staring down at him, cruel intrigue glittering in their depths. Harsh beeping assaulting his ears, pencils and pens scratching against paper as results were recorded. Sweat shining on his skin, dripping into his hair. Fighting the urge to scream and plead._

_Pain running through every cell in his body. Voices calling out higher numbers, recording his heart rate and temperature after every shock. Pain that got worse every time. Blood in his mouth from biting his tongue before someone thought to shove a rubber guard in his mouth . More pens, more beeping. More inhuman stares and unfeeling fingers. _

_Darkness all around him. Slamming sounds around his head, ricocheting around his skull. The straps biting into his arms and legs, cutting into his skin when he fought them. Hours crawling by, nothing but the slamming and his panicked breaths to keep him company. _

"No," Peter said aloud, forcing himself out of the reverie. That was then. This was now. And now was peaceful. A reprieve from the pain. He didn't want to ruin it with the memories. But they slithered through his defenses, whispering in his ears and caressing his face.

_Running until he couldn't feel his feet. The floor always moving faster under him. Shirt off, sensors sticking to his chest. Ever present beeping, growing louder and more erratic by the second. Breath gasping, pain everywhere. Hours passing, shocks every time he stumbles. Feet tangling, tumbling to the floor. Shocks. Pain everywhere. Blissful darkness covering his eyes, still surrounded by the jolts of pain. _

_Laughing above him, peace shattering in the pain. Cruel taunting words. Convulsing against his cell bed, trapped by the metal restraints. Elliot staring down, his hand slamming against the device over and over and over… Blackness fringing on his vision, until a sharp slap clears his head. For the next shock, and the next, and the next. Pain and agony, and wishing to die. _

_Drugs dulling his senses, softening the masked shapes above him. Needles poking into his skin, a blade pushing against his skin. Soft pleas to stop. No responses. Labcoats calling out numbers, more pens, more beeping. Hell never ending. _

_Laying in his cell, tubes in his body. Tubes in his arm, tubes up his nose. No hunger, but no eating. No thirst, but no drinking. No discomfort, but no relief. Purgatory, like Hell suspended. No breaks, no end. Cloudy thoughts, slurred speech. Blurry shapes walking over head. _

"NO!" Peter shouted, surging upwards, confined by the metal braces that held him down to the metal table. He was in his cell, surrounded by metal. Unyielding and cold. He heard footsteps coming down the hallway toward him, and his heart began to race, panic choking him like thick smoke. The footsteps passed his doorway, and Peter sagged against the metal table, the panic and adrenaline draining out of him.

There was no relief, however. Because every second they didn't come was another second that he had to wait. Every moment was another he could look forward to later on. Putting off the torture didn't make it any less agonizing. It just made the anticipation worse.

His breath gasped in his chest, and he felt trails of wetness running down his face. The lights blurred overhead, and Peter realized that he was crying. It happened more often than he'd like to admit, usually without his consent. He squeezed his eyes shut, taking deep breaths to force back the sadness and desperation. He couldn't be crying when they came for him. He refused to give them the satisfaction.

He heard a loud beep, and the door to his cell opened. Elliot stalked in, flanked by two new soldiers. They were new every time. Elliot held the device in his hand at the ready.

"Rise and shine, pretty boy," Elliot sang, approaching the table. "You gonna be a good boy for us today?"

Peter didn't validate him with a response, only glared in hatred. He was far past putting up a joking facade. He had no idea how long it had been, but certainly long enough to lose his grasp on humor. Elliot sneered, pressing a finger to Peter's face, wiping away one trail that the tears had left on his face. Peter felt his face redden, and his rage deepened at how Elliot could, even now, when he had nothing left, make him feel ashamed.

"Let's get him up, boys," Elliot ordered to the other two, gesturing to Peter. He took a step back, wiping his hand on his pants, as though he couldn't stand to touch Peter.

Peter went limp against the table, letting his despair weigh down his limbs. He closed his eyes, waiting for the click as the restraints snapped open-

And then launched himself off the table, reaching for Elliot with a snarl on his face. Elliot didn't look surprised. Something like this happened almost every time he came to get Peter. Elliot dodged to the side, with a smug smile, like he knew there was no way he could lose.

And really, there wasn't. Peter was weak, shaky, and without his webbing. His suit had been confiscated when he first woke up, leaving him clad only in gray pants. No shoes or shirt. He had no chance of escape, even with the door wide open. The collar around his neck made sure of that.

Sure enough, Elliot let him scramble a little closer before twisting the dial and slamming a hand down on the button. Peter collapsed against the floor, writhing in pain, unable to scream or cry out, as Elliot held the button gleefully. Finally, he released it, laughing as Peter lay shuddering on the floor. His muscles felt like jello, and his hands kept twitching uncontrollably. His heart galloped in his chest, frantically spasming for a few moments before it settled back into a regular, if a little fast paced, rhythm.

As the two soldiers hauled him up and dumped him in the wheelchair, fastening the restraints tightly, Peter shoved down feelings of disappointment. He'd known it wouldn't work, known that escape was near impossible.

But there was no way he was going to stop fighting them. He'd never make it easy for them.

It was the only thing he had left.

* * *

Peter returned to his cell in a fog. Whatever they'd given him hit him hard as they went back down the hallway, causing the floor and walls to swoop around. Elliot made a few half-hearted jabs, but Peter was too out of it to respond, and eventually, the soldier fell into silence.

When the restraints were opened, Peter tried to force his sluggish limbs into action, to keep fighting, but only succeeded in leaning forward, toppling face-first out of the wheelchair. The soldiers grabbed him easily, pulling him over to the table.

"Shit, this stuff is strong," Peter heard Elliot's voice, though muffled, coming from one of the blurry shapes above him. More hands grabbed his legs and helped Elliot heave Peter onto the metal table.

The metal restraints snapped shut, and Peter was locked in again. He didn't have the energy to care, though. Didn't even have the energy to feel disappointed that he wasn't dead yet. He heard the three soldiers making their exit, and the metal door shutting behind them. He winced when it slammed home, the sounding banging around his head painfully. He wasn't sure what they'd done to him this time, but his hearing was affected by it. Every sound was magnified by a thousand. Every one of his breaths sounded like a roaring wave, every heartbeat was a cannon shot. The footsteps outside echoed long before he should have heard them, and he could even hear the vibrations of voices talking down the hallway. Voices arguing. Getting louder and more irritated as they approached.

"_...classified area. You don't have the clearance to be here, sir. I'm sorry but you have to-" _

"_What the hell is going on here? Where's Fury? Take me to him." _

"_I'm not allowed to answer these questions, sir. I apologize, but if you follow me out, I'll have someone come speak to you-" _

"_I'm sorry, I don't think I phrased that like a question. So you have two choices. Either you take me to Fury now, or I-" _

Peter opened his eyes in confusion. That voice… The arrogance, the snark… It was a voice that Peter knew so well, after spending years hanging on his every word. The kind of voice that demanded all the attention in the room, no matter what room he was walking into.

Peter tried to lift his head, but his neck was too weak. He could only roll his head to the side, to look out the thick glass that was the front of his cell. It couldn't really be him… Must be the drugs playing tricks on his head, his hopes manifesting as auditory hallucinations. The footsteps grew closer, and hope caught in Peter's chest, making it hard to breathe.

Two figures appeared, moving slowly as the first person tried to slow the progression of the second. The soldier walked backward haltingly, holding a hand up, fingers nearly grazing the second man, who wore oxfords, a designer suit, sunglasses.

The soldier's hand touched the man's lapels, and he stopped, eyes widening in indignation and anger. They were arguing again, the soldier pleading, wilting more and more with every word spoken by the other man.

"No, shut up, I don't want to hear another word!" Peter could hear the words clear as day, like they were being spoken right next to his ear, and they yanked him backward in time, to a different place, a different problem, a different shame.

"_No, this is where you zip it, alright? The adult is talking." _

It was him. It was Mr. Stark. He was here, to fix everything after Peter had screwed it all up so royally. Shame flooded over him, as visceral as the taste of blood in his mouth, and some small part of him hoped that Stark would keep going, not see him, not ever see him, because this was the last way that Peter had ever wanted his mentor to see him. Beaten. Broken. Helpless.

The larger, louder part of him just wanted to go home.

"M-Mr. St-Stark," Peter coughed, his voice hoarse from not having been used for nearly as long as he'd been there. He wasn't even sure if Stark would hear him, with his weak voice and the thick walls. His eyes closed with the exhaustion of calling for help.

"Please, Mr. Stark… P-Please, help."

When he forced his eyes open again, Tony Stark was turning away from the soldier, looking over with a frown of confusion on his face, brows furrowed behind the sunglasses. When he looked into the glass cell, confusion was replaced by shock, and he pulled the sunglasses from his face. And then rage washed over his features as he turned to the soldier at his side.

"Open this door."

"Sir, I can't-"

"Open this damn door now!" Stark growled, touching his wrist to activate the Iron Glove. The soldier continued to sputter excuses, and Stark shoved him aside, aiming the glove at the door. Peter squeezed his eyes shut as the palm glowed and exploded, shattering the door and walls into a thousand pieces. He heard the crunch as Stark approached.

"Jesus, kid…" Stark muttered when he came close. "Peter." He tapped the side of Peter's face, trying to rouse him, and Peter's eyes fluttered open. He made a genuine effort to focus, but everything still swam around him.

"Mr. Stark…" Peter rasped. "I'm sorry, I didn't think it- I just- I couldn't-"

"It's okay, it's fine, alright?" Stark interrupted him. "Let's just get you up, yeah?" He inspected the cuffs on Peter's wrists for a minute, seemed to find what he was looking for, and fired a quick energy blast at a certain point of the table. All four of the cuffs fell open, and Peter reached up, locking his arms around his mentor's neck.

"Thank you," Peter whispered, sure that Stark would push him away like he had after the airport battle. "Thank you."

Instead of pulling away, Stark wrapped his arms around Peter's shoulders, pulling him up and holding him tightly. "It's okay, I've got you." He sounded more gentle than Peter had ever heard him. One of his hands came up, brushing the back of Peter's head, running down to his neck, where it paused on the collar.

"Wait, what is...?"

Peter shuddered. "Get it off. Please, Mr. Stark, get it off."

"Okay, easy, Pete, just let me…" He leaned over Peter, looking at the back of the color, where Peter assumed the locking mechanism was, and Peter was pressed close to Stark's chest. He heard a buzz, felt heat against his skin, and then freedom as the collar fell away, seared in two.

Peter swallowed a sob of relief. "Thanks, sir."

"Alright, kid, we gotta get you up."

Peter nodded and swung his feet off the table, leaning heavily on his mentor as he tried to stand. His legs buckled nearly as soon as they touched the ground, but he gritted his teeth and forced himself to stand, walk, keep breathing.

Stark kicked some of the glass out of the way as they moved, minding Peter's bare feet, until they got out into the hallway. There was an alarm blaring dully, red lights flashing over the doorways, but Stark paid it no mind.

"FRIDAY, tell Happy to bring the car around to Exit C," He ordered quietly.

Stark pulled Peter down a few hallways that he didn't recognize, ducking into doorways and unlocked rooms when footsteps approached. They made it to a heavy metal door, which opened into an alley. Sitting just outside, primed and ready to go, was a familiar Audi, with Happy at the wheel.

Stark opened the back door, urging Peter inside. Peter collapsed onto the seat, starting to drag himself over to make room for Stark, but Stark stopped him with a hand. "Get ready to go, Happy."

Happy glanced back, forming an affirmative, when he caught sight of Peter in the rearview. "Shit, kid." Happy's normally apathetic expression was one of shock and horror, and Peter had to look away, blinking hard, as Stark rounded the car and got in beside Peter.

"Step on it," Stark ordered, and the Audi went screaming out of the alley.

As they drove, Happy pushing the speed limit the entire way, Peter felt the adrenaline and relief of the rescue slowly fading, giving way to pain, nausea, and exhaustion. His eyes closed, and he leaned against the window.

"Hey, hotshot, how're you doing?" Stark asked. The lightness in his voice sounded forced.

Peter just shook his head, too tired to pretend to be okay.

"Peter," Stark said softly, and Peter opened his eyes to see his mentor looking at him. For once, there was no snark, no arrogance on his face. He looked… sad. Understanding. Comforting.

The tears rushed to his eyes, and he hurried to wipe them away with his hand, furious at himself for crying, in front of _Tony Stark _of all people, the one person he didn't want to see him like this. God, why couldn't he just get a _grip_-

"Peter, it's okay," Stark murmured, reaching out and putting a hand on Peter's shoulder. The touch only tore into Peter, tearing down the wall he'd been trying to construct since he'd been taken to hide away all the fear, the longing, the despair. His head fell, face crumpling, tears running like a river down his face, as Stark pulled him in.

Peter ended up tucked against Stark's shoulder, fisting his suit like a little kid in the midst of a nightmare, while Stark held him tightly. He couldn't help the sobs that burst from his lips, louder the more he tried to hold them in.

"It's okay, Peter," Stark murmured. "You're okay. It's over now, I promise."

They stayed that way until the pain faded, his sobs eased into hiccups and then shudders, and his eyes fell closed in exhaustion. He drifted into sleep with the car rocking back and forth through the traffic and Stark holding the broken pieces of him together.

* * *

The first thing Peter heard as he woke up was a high pitched beeping. Everything smelled stale, new, too clean. The sheets were stiff and rough under his fingers, and he could feel the pull of sensors on his skin and the pinch of a needle in his arm.

Peter's eyes shot open, darting around the dim room, as the beeping sped up next to him. He didn't recognize it. He didn't recognize anything. The room was small, too small, crowded with machines, a bag full of something hanging above him, slowly dripping into a tube going into his arm, there was something on his face, in his nose, he couldn't breathe, there wasn't enough air anywhere, not anything, he couldn't-

"Peter?" A bleary voice spoke up from beside him, waking up as he panicked and gasped. "Oh, dammit, Peter-"

Someone was at his side in an instant, hands on his shoulders, holding him down, he couldn't move, Elliot-

"Easy, Pete, it's me, Stark, okay?" The person above him said quietly. "You gotta breathe for me, okay? C'mon, kid, just breathe."

Peter slowly calmed as Stark came into focus above him, looking more than a little concerned. He tried to sit up, craning his neck to look around the room. "I don't- Where- Where are we? How-"

"Okay, okay, one thing at a time, alright?" Stark said. "We're at the Avenger's base. New York. Good? Good. Now, breathe."

Peter nodded, following Stark's example for a few seconds until his muscles relaxed. The panic faded away, and Stark leaned back, looking relieved.

"How- How did we get here?"

"Happy drove us. You don't remember?" Stark asked, looking out the darkened window.

Peter thought back. He remembered Stark finding him, their escape, the car in the alley… but not arriving at the base. Nothing past getting onto the freeway. He shook his head.

Stark shrugged nonchalantly. "Not surprising. You were pretty out of it."

Peter swallowed. "Why… am I…?

"In the hospital?" Stark turned back. Peter got the impression he was upset, holding back anger, and shrank back in the pillows a bit. "You're emaciated, Peter. Dehydrated. You had a fever of one hundred and four, your resting heart rate was fifty BPM, and who knows what the hell those drugs did to your system."

Peter looked down, suddenly flushed. He didn't blame Stark for being mad at him. It was his fault. He'd gotten into something he shouldn't have, hadn't asked for help when he'd needed it. He'd gotten himself into real, actual danger, making Iron Man race to his rescue. He hadn't even been able to help himself.

Stark looked away, his jaw tensed.

"I…" Peter started, and Stark looked over sharply. Peter faltered for a moment, and then kept going. "I know I screwed up." Stark's eyes flashed and Peter slammed his eyes shut, unable to watch his mentor's anger at him. "I shouldn't have tried to handle it by myself, I should have run it by you first and when I saw how many there were I should have had Karen call for help, I just didn't want to bother you and I thought I could handle it, and then, w-when I realized I needed help, it-it was too late and-" He rambled, the words spilling out over themselves like he was worried that Stark would storm away before he could get out the entire explanation.

"Hey, whoa, whoa, whoa," Stark stopped him. He walked back over and took a seat in the chair next to his bed. "Where's all this coming from? What do you mean, you're sorry?"

"I, just, I made you, you know, come all the way out to get me, and I should have been able to handle it, or I should have called you when I got in over my head, but I just-"

"Kid, do you think I'm mad at you?" Stark broke in.

"I mean, I guess, I just-"

"It's not you," Stark interrupted. "It's not you, so just forget that. You did nothing wrong. You hear? Nothing."

"Oh." Peter nodded. He laid his head back against the pillows. "Okay."

"You need anything? Hungry? Thirsty? Want me to find a hot nurse for a sponge bath?"

Peter surprised himself with a laugh. "There are nurses staffed at the Avenger's base?"

"No, but I'm sure I could convince one of the others to play the part. Barton, for sure, he's just a big-"

The door opened, and a young Asian woman peered in, nodding when she saw that Peter was awake. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything…?"

"Nothing that didn't need interrupted, Doctor," Stark said.

"Right. Well, I was just coming in to see how Peter is doing." Dr. Cho came into the room, shutting the door behind her. "Much better, I presume, if he's up and talking."

"Seems to be," Stark agreed quietly, watching like a hawk as Dr. Cho approached Peter.

"Hey, Peter. Can you sit up for me?" Dr. Cho asked, helping when Peter struggled to push himself higher than his elbows. He'd never felt so weak, so drained, even before he'd been bitten by the spider.

"What did they do to me?" Peter asked quietly, more to himself than anyone else, but Dr. Cho still answered.

"We're not sure. We found traces of some kind of new drug in your system, and we're analyzing it now to see what it's made of. It could be what's causing the fatigue and the other symptoms." She unwound the stethoscope from around her neck and pressed it against Peter's back. "Take a deep breath for me." She shifted it to the front. "Again." After listening to a few more breaths, she nodded and took out the earpieces. "Still sounds a little rough, but that'll hopefully clear up when your healing abilities kick in."

Dr. Cho raised a penlight. "This might be a little bright," She warned before shining it into Peter's eyes. Peter followed her instructions, staring at the wall, moving his eyes when told, watching the light as it moved. Finally, Dr. Cho clicked it off. "I think your head's doing fine, Peter." She grinned up at Stark. "Yours, I'm not so sure about."

Stark scoffed. "Please, Doc."

"No, of course, you're right," Dr. Cho took it back jovially. "Thick skull, no?"

"Yeah, ha, ha, very clever," Stark muttered. "Give the woman a medal."

Peter was chuckling at the banter when the sudden smell of latex gloves washed over him. He heard the _snap_ as Dr. Cho pulled them over her hands, felt the echoes ringing through his ears and into his brain.

A wave of vertigo washed over him, and he felt gloved fingers probing in his mouth, brushing against his skin, heard them squeak as they gripped metal tools, watched them pull away flecked with his blood.

"Peter?" Stark was at his side, one hand on his shoulder. "You with me, kid?"

Peter nodded, trying to find his tongue again. "Y-yeah, fine. I'm fine."

There was a pause as Stark looked up at Dr. Cho. "You sure, Peter? What's wrong?"

Peter forced his head to the side in a jerky denial. "Nothing, it's fine. I-I'm fine."

"Okay," Dr. Cho sounded unsure. "I just need to take a look at these sores on your neck, okay? I'm sure they'll heal up once your abilities are up to speed again, but until then we have to take care of 'em."

She reached over and gently began inspecting the marks on Peter's neck, from where the collar had been chafing for… however long he'd been there.

"How long was I gone?" Peter asked, glancing up at Stark when he didn't immediately offer an answer.

"Three months," Stark answered tonelessly, looking out the window.

Three months. It felt both like such a short time, and also an eternity. Three months. Only a quarter of a year. But twelve long weeks. Eighty four long days. Weird, how it had felt so much longer, while he could hardly believe it had been that long.

"They'll be fine for now," Dr. Cho decided. "If you're not feeling better by morning, I'll put some salve on them, but the only thing I'll give you tonight is something for pain."

"What?" Peter asked as Dr. Cho opened up one of the cabinets on the wall.

"I have some liquid morphine, Vicodin, fentanyl, oxycodone, tramadol. Might be better just to start with a pill he can take orally, and then if he's still uncomfortable we can try some of the more powerful stuff in a couple of hours." Dr. Cho caught sight of Peter's wide eyes. "Or, if you need something now, that's perfectly fine. We can try-"

"No," Peter swallowed the taste of bile in his mouth. "I don't want anything."

"Would you rather have something like Ibuprofen or Tylenol? They aren't as fast acting, but they'd take the edge off."

"I don't want anything."

"Kid, no need to be a hero," Stark said, slumping down into the chair next to him. "I know you've got to be hurting, I've seen you wincing every time you move."

"I'm fine," Peter said quietly.

"Peter, the painkillers aren't going to… make anything worse," Dr. Cho said uncertainly. "I promise, you're not going to heal any faster or slower because of them. They just might make you more comfortable-"

"I said no!" Peter snapped, and then immediately felt bad for yelling. "I'm sorry, I just don't want anything, I feel fine and I really just want to go to sleep, you know, and I-"

"Hey, Doc, you mind giving me a minute with the kid?" Stark spoke over Peter's rambling, and he trailed off as Dr. Cho nodded and withdrew, closing the door behind her.

Stark fixed him in a steely gaze. "Now, seriously, what's this about? I want it straight."

Peter swallowed. "Mr. Stark, I promise, I'm fine, I don't need-"

Stark held up a hand. "I said I want a straight answer. Out with it. Now."

Peter looked down at his lap, shame coloring his cheeks. "I just… I just want to be me."

Stark looked ready to snap again, but held himself back. "What does that mean? You can be you. You _are_ you, kid, druggie or not."

Peter shook his head. "It's not… I don't like what they do to me. Drugs. I don't know what they gave to me back there, but sometimes they'd give me stuff after… really _bad_ stuff they did, and it messed with my head. It was like I wasn't even there anymore, 'cause I couldn't move, couldn't talk. I wasn't really scared, I guess, or in pain, but I was still, like… I knew what was going on, you know, I just couldn't… feel anything."

Stark looked at him with an even expression.

"I just don't want to feel like that again," Peter whispered. "I want to stay me, even if it hurts."

Stark nodded, watching him for a few long seconds, like he was thinking the situation through. "I get it, kid. Honest. But you have to know that whatever they were giving you was probably enough to knock out a dinosaur, okay? Probably mixed with God-knows-what, too. Not like the stuff Cho has here."

Peter shrugged, still recoiling inwardly at the idea of letting a needle or a pill anywhere near him.

Seeing his hesitation, Stark nodded. "Okay, how about this. You take an Ibuprofen- Ah, ah-" He held up a hand at Peter's protest. "You take an Ibuprofen, try to sleep, and if you can't, then we talk about something stronger. Only then. Okay?"

Peter closed his eyes for a moment in defeat, but opened them again after a few beats of silence. Stark was still looking at him expectantly, and Peter realized that this wasn't one of those decisions that Stark was making without him. This wasn't him saying, "Okay, this is how it's going to be, deal with it". He was really asking, "Is this okay?"

He nodded, and Stark stood to retrieve Dr. Cho. As he was passing, Peter reached out and grabbed his hand. His mentor stilled, looking at the floor for a moment before meeting Peter's eyes.

"Thanks," Peter said, and then dropped Stark's hand when he realized he had nothing else to say and was just holding onto Stark's hand like a lost little kid. Surprisingly, Stark seemed reluctant to let it go.

"Don't thank me, Peter. I'm just doing what I should have been doing from the beginning," Stark said, and walked out of the room to find Dr. Cho.

Peter watched him go, confused. It seemed like he was angry again, just for a moment. But they hadn't been talking about him getting caught, or what had happened to him. They hadn't been talking about SHIELD, or the doctors, or any of it.

Despite the way Peter worshipped Stark, he realized that he didn't really know what was going on in his mentor's mind. He wasn't sure that he knew the man at all. Peter knew that Stark took a lot on his shoulders, and contrary to his blase attitude, felt things really deeply.

He knew that Stark took the blame for things he shouldn't.

Peter wondered if this time, the anger he kept seeing in Stark's eyes wasn't aimed at Peter, or even the people who'd taken him.

Maybe Stark was saving his anger all for himself.

* * *

Sleeping was surprisingly easy. Much easier once the ibuprofen had dulled some of the worst aches. With Stark sitting in the chair behind him, eyes closed but sitting in such a way that Peter knew he wasn't really asleep, he felt okay to fall asleep, like someone was watching out for him.

It was dumb, he knew, to be afraid to fall asleep. He was safer here than anywhere else in the world, and he knew he could trust Dr. Cho not to do anything to him while he slept. He could be certain they weren't going to do anything to hurt him, ever, asleep or awake.

It still made him feel better to have Stark watching over him as he closed his eyes.

He must have been asleep for hours, but it only felt like a few minutes. When he opened his eyes again, sunlight was streaming through the big glass window through the slanted blinds, and there was someone new sitting in the chair next to him.

Peter rolled over to face the person, his breath catching when he recognized her purple blouse, her big glasses, the ring she never left the house without. Her head had fallen forward as she slept, and her reddish-brown hair fell in a curtain on either side of her face.

"May," Peter breathed, just to affirm to himself that it was her, that she was here. And okay.

As if she heard him, her head pulled up and her eyes blinked blearily open. They widened when they met his eyes, and May lunged forward, grabbing his shoulders and pulling him into a bone crushing hug.

Peter wrapped his arms around her, and she sat on the edge of the bed, holding him tightly. For someone so small, with so little arms, she really could squeeze, Peter realized with a smile.

"God, Peter, I was so scared. Nobody had any idea where you were, I didn't know where to start looking. And then when it became a week, and then a month, I didn't know…" Her breath caught. "I didn't know if I'd ever see you again."

Peter tucked his face into her neck, just like he had when he was a little kid. "I'm here, now. I'm okay."

When May pulled back, there were tears in her eyes that she wiped away carefully. "Of course you are. Everything's going to be fine now that you're home." Her eyes scanned him up and down, cataloging all the visible injuries. "Dr. Cho told me that your abilities should be working soon, and that it would heal… these…" Her fingers lightly brushed the sores on his neck, and Peter couldn't help the shudder that wracked his spine at the touch.

"Where's Mr. Stark?"

May pursed her lips. "I'm not sure. He left when I got here. Hopefully for a shower and some rest. That man looked awful."

"Did he say if he was coming back?"

"Oh, I'm sure he is. That man just doesn't know when to keep his nose out of our business-"

"May, he's the one that found me," Peter interrupted, and May stood up in anger.

"He's also the one that made you a target in the first place. I don't know what I was thinking, letting you keep going out, wearing that suit, fighting in the streets… Coming home late every night, and all because he convinced you to-"

"May, he didn't convince me of anything," Peter broke through. "I was doing the Spiderman thing way before Mr. Stark came to talk me about Germany, before any of the stuff last year with the Vulture. Mr. Stark just helped me do it better."

May put a hand on her forehead, shaking her head. The issue obviously wasn't resolved, but she seemed content to let it be for a moment. "I'm just glad you're home now."

Peter nodded. May reached out and took his hand. "Is there anything you need? Are you in much pain? I can go find Dr. Cho and see if there's anything-"

"No," Peter said as he squeezed her hand lightly. "Just stay with me for a while."

May nodded, pressing both of her hands against the sides of his face and kissing the top of his head. "Forever, baby. Forever."

* * *

To Be Continued...


	3. Returned

**Returned**

It took three days.

Three days for whatever they'd injected him with to finally wear off, three days before the burns and bruises and scars faded away. The sickly pallor gave way to a healthy glow once he was eating good food, the bags under his eyes lifted, he was able to sit up and walk and climb the walls and stop a bus with his bare hands again.

Physically, he was fine in every sense of the word.

But he didn't feel fine.

He felt like he was teetering on a knife's edge, constantly having to weave back and forth to keep from falling. Even though he knew he was safe, he kept telling himself he was safe, his muscles tensed every time someone came into the room. The unexpected squeak of a shoe against the tiles set his heart to racing, and if he started thinking too much about the walls, the glass, the layers of brick between him and the sun, he broke out in a cold sweat.

No one pushed him to talk about what happened, though Dr. Cho offered, and Peter was relieved when May shut her down. In the starkness of the Med Bay, it all felt like a horrific nightmare, one that would vanish if he could just stop thinking about it.

But there was the problem, right there. How the hell did he stop thinking about it?

Stark popped in and out throughout the three days, always keeping his distance, as if fearful of getting between Peter and May now that she was there for her nephew. He never said much, though he always looked like he was holding back, like there was something he wanted to say but couldn't. Or wouldn't.

One visit, when May left to get her third bottle of herbal tea, Peter tried to alleviate some of his discomfort.

"You know it isn't your fault, what happened to me?" Peter said in a quiet voice, looking down at the blanket over his lap. His fingers played with the edges, running over the frayed fabric.

"Isn't that my line?" Stark tossed back, his mirthful tone somehow more flat than usual.

Peter didn't rise to the bait. He looked up at his mentor. "I mean it. I don't blame you for what happened."

Stark nodded, but it was one of resignment, not agreement. "Whether you blame me or not, Pete, it's on me. You should never have been in the line of fire in the first place, and it was my job to look out for you when you were."

Peter was opening his mouth for a rebuttal, but May returned, and Stark quickly withdrew from the room as Peter's protest died on his lips.

May insisted on taking him home once Dr. Cho gave the all-clear. Peter could tell, despite his numerous protests against her blaming Mr. Stark for what happened, that she wanted both of them as far away from the billionaire playboy as possible. As soon as possible.

As he was packing up the few things May had brought over for him on the afternoon they left, he couldn't help overhearing Mr. Stark trying to convince May to stay.

"...staying a few more days."

"Not a chance in hell. I'm taking him home."

"You do that, you're taking him away from the one place that might be able to help him. We have resources here, people he can talk to."

"He has me. He can talk to me."

"Not about this kind of thing. What Peter went through, it's not something you just bounce back from. He's going to have problems, trouble sleeping, nightmares-"

"Trust me, Mr. Stark, I know what trauma looks like in kids. I saw it after his parents left, I saw it after Ben-" She cut herself off with a ragged breath. "I know."

"Then you know it's going to be something neither of you will be able to handle on your own. You're gonna need help."

"Then we'll get it from someone else."

At that point, May swept into the room, briskly gathering her things and Peter's, fixing him with a tense smile, designed to put him at ease, and ushered him out the door. Peter walked ahead, eyes on the floor, as May trailed further behind, rummaging through her purse for her keys so they wouldn't have to stand long in the pouring rain outside.

Peter propped open the front door, holding it open as he waited for May. The smell that washed over him, of wet asphalt and dirt drinking up the rain, was like a balm to the chaotic, thrashing animal that was his mind. The sound of the rain, nearly loud enough to block out everything else, quieted the pounding of his heart in his ears.

But it didn't drown out the sound of Mr. Stark catching May to say one last thing. Even with the hood pulled up over his ears, even with the rain, even with them standing fifty feet away, Peter caught Mr. Stark's tense murmur like he was whispering into Peter's ear rather than May's.

"May, you have to reconsider. Have you thought about the fact that they might not be done with him? We got him out, but who knows what Ross is thinking right now? There's no guarantee that he won't come back for Peter the minute you go home."

Something took hold of Peter's lungs and squeezed, tightening like a vice until all he could feel was numb and all he could hear was a buzzing in his ears. He struggled to breathe, to control it, because he had to be in control, he had to-

"Hey, you okay?" May came up behind him, running a hand across his shoulder blades. The touch was enough to loosen the band around his lungs, send air rushing through his body again. He took a quick breath, nodding at May and offering a weak smile.

May's eyes searched his face for another moment, her brows drawn in concern and sadness. "Let's get you home, huh?"

Peter nodded and May took his head, leading the way into the growing storm.

* * *

Walking back through the front door felt like passing over a freshly dug grave. The front door was new, and Peter's hand lingered on the new doorknob, little clicks echoing through his mind. As he opened the door to his home, it felt the same but irreparably different.

There was the wall where his childhood pictures hung, Uncle Ben and Aunt May smiling down on him. There was the rough patch where a dart had flown past his head and buried itself in the wall. There was the stain on the carpet where he'd spilled grape juice as a child. There the floorboards were worn from the efforts to remove the stains of his blood on the floor. Mismatching chairs circled a new dining table, and clear new glass shone in nearly every window.

It was like it was happening all over again, and it was like it had never happened at all.

"Peter?"

"I'm okay," He answered automatically. _I'm okay. _

May let him go to his room to rest and "get settled in" while she made dinner. He smelled the pasta on the stove from where he was sitting on his bed, arms hugging his knees, but he didn't feel hungry. Didn't feel tired. Didn't feel anything.

That made him feel scared. The nothing. The void of emptiness where there should be relief, sadness, happiness, anger, anything. It made him feel like he was back there, with numbness coursing through his veins, shoved down his throat, jabbed under his skin. Like he was floating underwater, hearing everything happen above him on a different level. One he couldn't reach.

Finally, May called him out, and he sat at the table, pushing the spaghetti around his plate, occasionally bringing a bite to his mouth. May seemed hesitant, every once in a while pausing like she was going to say something before going back to her food.

"Ned and Michelle will be happy to see you," May finally said, her voice cautiously bright. "Ned called almost every day asking if there was news, and Michelle-" Her voice caught for a moment. "She was very kind."

"Yeah…" Peter agreed quietly.

"So, Peter, we should talk about what you want to do with… school."

"School?"

"Mm-hm. I think it might be a good idea for you to take a few days to rest at home, and then maybe go back on Monday? I was talking to Dr. Cho, and she told me it would be a good idea for you to get back to normal routines and everything… As soon as possible. What… What do you think?"

Peter shrugged. "That's fine."

May frowned, reaching over to press a hand to his forehead. "Are you sure you're feeling all right, Peter? Maybe we should call Dr. Cho-"

"May, seriously, I'm fine, okay? I don't need you _hovering_ over me like this," Peter snapped, jerking away from her hand and standing up from the table.

May froze. "I'm sorry, Peter, I just-" She swallowed, her eyes going misty. "I just don't know how to help you."

"You don't need to, May," He looked down at the floorboards. "I'm home now, it's over. Really, it's like it never happened."

May nodded reluctantly. "Maybe that's for the best, huh? Maybe we should just keep looking ahead instead of hanging onto the past."

Peter flickered a weak smile at her. "Yeah, I think so, too." He held eye contact for a few seconds before looking away, shifting his feet nervously. "You know, I'm still pretty tired. I think it might just be best if I go to bed."

May nodded, recollecting herself and standing up to clear the table. "Of course, that's fine. You go get some rest."

Peter nodded and retreated, carefully controlling his steps so it wouldn't seem like he was fleeing. As he made it back to his room, the numbness was seeping from his fingers and toes, leeching away from his chest, leaving a sensation like pins and needles in its wake. He closed his door, fingers trembling, and collapsed against the wood paneling with a dirty sweatshirt from the floor clutched tightly in his fingers.

It wasn't until the scream rose in his throat, muffled by his clenched teeth and a heavy sweatshirt, that he realized what had taken place of the nothing.

…_like it never happened…_

…_get back to normal…_

His heart was racing, so loud and frantic he could hear it in his ears and feel it in his toes.

…_I don't need you… _

Air dragged reluctantly into starving lungs, the edges of his vision going fuzzy.

…_don't know how to help you… _

He'd hurt her, he'd hurt her by getting taken away. It had shattered her, torn down her confidence, made her someone scared and damaged and fragile and it was _his fault_.

Just when he thought it was never going to go away, the tremors eased in his hands. He was able to catch his breath again, and like the rest of him finally got the memo that the threat had passed, his heartbeat died in his ears and his aching muscles relaxed.

…_like it never happened… _

…_hanging onto the past… _

"It's over," He whispered to himself. "It's done. And I'm fine. I'm fine now."

He crawled into bed, pulling the blankets over him despite the warmth of his room, despite how every inch of his skin was soaked in sweat. He rolled, first facing the wall, and then turning to face the door when the first position made him feel like there were icicles jabbing into his spine.

_I have to be fine._

Peter didn't sleep for a second that first night. Every sound was a pick in the lock, every groan was a board warping under a rubber sole. Every time he started to close his eyes, he felt his guard slipping, and he was jerked awake by a lightning bolt of fear down his spine. He laid in bed for hours after he heard May get up, unable to unlock his joints, caught in a haze between numbness and terror.

_Have you thought about the fact that they might not be done with him?_

The second night he dozed for a few hours sometime between midnight and four. He jerked awake with a racing heart, dreams of cuffs on his wrists and scalpels slicing through his skin chasing him into the waking world. It felt like hours before the panic subsided.

_There's no guarantee that he won't come back for Peter the minute you go home._

The third night May raced into Peter's room, already fumbling for 911 on her cell phone, only to find him tangled in the sheets, eyes wide, screaming at some unseen horror. She held his shoulders as he thrashed and cried and slowly became aware of her presence. May held him tightly as the terror subsided but the tremors remained, unsure if he was even completely with her or not.

The next morning May watched Peter carefully while she sipped on her coffee. He was taking small bites of a piece of toast, staring pointedly at the tablecloth. Finally, she sighed.

"Peter, are you sure you want to go through with school today?" She asked, crossing over and brushing a hand over his back. "I know I said Monday, but it doesn't matter when you go back. You can take as long as you need."

Peter thought about another day trapped in the apartment, a worried May hovering around every corner. Another day of feeling like the walls were closing in, but being too afraid of what was outside to open any windows. Another day might actually drive him stir crazy.

"No, I'd like to go, May," He said, setting down the toast. "It'll be good to see Ned again, do the Decathlon stuff." He shrugged. "You know, get back to normal."

May nodded. "Okay, whatever you say, kiddo."

* * *

It wasn't good. Any of it.

First, Peter had to fend off May, who wanted to go with him on the subway, walk him all the way to school, like he was in first grade again. He firmly refused, telling her he was _fine_, he didn't need a babysitter, he knew how to get to school.

Only to find out that Stark had arranged a ride anyway.

So not only did he have to go back to school, but he got to be dropped off, to the stares and whispers of his peers, by one of Tony Stark's definitely-not-inconspicuous town cars. He tried to keep his head down as he walked through the clusters of Midtown students waiting until the last minute to go inside, but felt every single pair of eyes on the sidewalk boring into his back.

Second, he found out what everyone else knew about his disappearance from Ned and Michelle, who were waiting anxiously by his locker for him to arrive. Both of them nearly tackled him to the ground with frantic hugs when they saw him, which was probably the only good part of his day, the only instance that brought a smile to his face.

"Dude," Ned whispered with wide eyes once the happy reunion was over. "Holy shit."

"Yeah," Peter half-laughed. "That's, well, yeah." He grunted in pain as Michelle suddenly lashed out and socked him in the shoulder. "What the hell was that for?"

"For making us worry," Michelle said, crossing her arms. "We called-"

"Dude, we were so worried!" Ned interrupted. "We called your house, like, every single day, but your aunt could never tell me anything, and the news was saying all this insane stuff-"

"Insane stuff?" Peter cut him off. "What kind of insane stuff?"

Ned leaned closer. "Well, at first it was just standard missing-kid stuff, you know? Then a couple weeks go by and they're saying that police were losing jurisdiction of the case, that it was going to people higher up, but no one knew who. Then there were people saying that Tony Stark was in charge of the investigation, that he had pretty much all of the Avengers looking for the kid from Queens, and nobody had any idea why-"

The five-minute bell rang, and Michelle leaned in for another hug. "I gotta go, but I'll see you at lunch, okay? Save me a seat!"

"Like we'd need to," Ned scoffed as she ran off. "We always have the table to ourselves."

"Wait, Ned, go back," Peter said, catching his arm as he turned to head for their first hour. "This was all on the news?"

"All over the news, dude," Ned confirmed with wide eyes. "And it wasn't just that-" He glanced at the clearing hallway and leaned in. "A couple months ago, somebody noticed that nobody was seeing Spiderman anymore, that sightings of him, you, had gone from a few a week to absolutely nothing."

Peter's heart dropped to his stomach. "So…"

"Flash, he started saying stuff. I think he just wanted to be the center of attention, you know, but he was saying how it was all true, how it made sense for how weird you'd been acting." Ned bit his lip. "A lot of people thought the theories were bogus, but some people… I guess some believe it."

"So people know? They know that I'm…"

"Leeds! Parker!" One of the history teachers barked at them from his classroom. "Go on to class, boys."

"Sure thing, Mr. Harris," Ned answered, and then pulled Peter along. "I don't think it's as bad as you think. Really, only the obnoxious loudmouths gave the theory any real merit, a lot of people just bought into it cause it was freaky to think about…"

First hour, Peter sat with Ned, and he was able to ignore the glances because of Ned's little whispered comments every few seconds. His anxiety about his classmates' discovery gradually eased, and for a few minutes towards the end of class, he was almost able to pretend it was just a normal day, a normal period of writing on each other's papers while Mrs. Baker's back was turned and generally ignoring anything that she had to say.

Then the bell rang, and everyone stood up, and he and Ned walked to the end of the hallway, where the corridor split into two paths and they each went separate ways. Ned waved and went on his way, but Peter felt frozen for a moment, like he'd just been tossed out to sea with no life vest. Nothing to keep him afloat.

The stares followed him, he heard people whispering, and thanks to his superior hearing, he could make out what they were saying to each other, although there was so much that it was hard to pick out one comment from the other.

Second hour, third hour, fourth, he felt the stares like knives digging into his spine. He stared at the paper on his desk, words about quadratics and polynomials and factoring going in one ear and out the other. He kept his eyes down, tried to ignore the whispers he could still hear coming from behind him, on his right, on his left, in the hallway, and dug his pencil into the paper, not writing anything, just digging it in and dragging back and forth and back and forth until the tip broke through the paper and it _tears_-

_The paper tears as the technician tries to pull the top sheet off the clipboard. He swears, dropping down to pick it up, muttering about how hard it's going to be to make copies and maybe he should just get a new one and what a pain in the ass. _

_Peter watches him from inside the glass chamber, wondering if the man realizes how ironic it is for him to be complaining about the hardship and inconvenience of having to run and make a copy when the paperwork he is filling out pertains to the kid he's _actually _torturing in here. _

Maybe he just doesn't see it that way_, Peter reasons. _Maybe in this guy's eyes, he's just a thing, a string of numbers and letters on a torn piece of paper that he has to go make a copy of.

"_What's the problem?" A senior lab worker comes over and the tech explains what happened, but the lab worker waves it off. "Just make a new copy when you bring Milner the results. Before or after, it really doesn't matter when all this stuff is filled out. It's not like anyone's looking into it." _

_The senior lab worker leers down at Peter, strapped to a bench inside a sealed glass cylinder, and then glances at the tech. "You ready to record the results?" _

_The tech nods, and the lab worker claps his hands together, making Peter flinch. "Alright, then." He crosses over to the tech and they conferred quietly for another minute. Then a few more lab workers come over, presumably to witness the results for themselves, and then the senior lab worker spins a dial on the control panel in the glass chamber. _

_Within moments, Peter feels the seizing of his lungs when they try to pull in air but find nothing. He thrashes, his body frantically reaching out for air, but there is only emptiness. A void. _

_He is dying. _

_He holds on, feels his cells destroying themselves in an effort to survive, for nearly thirty seconds. Then blackness eats away at the edges of his vision, and he feels oblivity folding him into its warm, gentle arms. _

_And then his lungs pull in cold air, and his eyes fly open, gasping in relief and agony as awareness slams into him like a brick wall. He's given enough time for his stats to nearly normalize, and then the dial is spun again. _

_He starves, he gasps, he dies, and every time, when relief is so close, they pull him back, so that they can do it all again. Around the sixth time, Peter is begging for them to stop every time he has the air to. By the tenth, he is just using every scrap of oxygen to survive. _

"_Amazing," The senior lab worker says, sounding truly awed. "Simply amazing." _

Peter snapped back to the present, hands gripped tightly around the edges of his desk. He glanced around, getting his breath back under control, and only saw a few confused, concerned stares. He turned back to the front, watching the teacher scrawl on the whiteboard, her voice like white noise in his ears.

During lunch he sat with Ned and Michelle, staring down at the sandwich and apple on his tray, touching nothing. They talked, Peter didn't even know about what, and he nodded and made sounds in the right spots so they would think he was listening.

Sixth hour, some ignorant, well-meaning teacher called him out, saying how glad they were to see him back in class, prompting every student to turn and freely stare. He stammered an agreement, face flaming red, staring down until they all turned away.

During seventh hour PE they ran laps, and Peter found himself going as fast as he could, churning past all the others, as if by outrunning his peers he was also outrunning his problems. He only stopped when Ned caught his arm as he was starting to lap him, warning him that people were starting to stare.

_People were staring before,_ Peter wanted to snap back, but held his tongue and hung back, trying his best to fake fatigue.

He felt the numbness returning around eighth hour, the stares no longer bothering him, nothing bothering him. Nothing touching him, either. Nothing reaching him.

During Decathlon practice, he didn't answer anything. How could he, when he couldn't hear any of the questions? Ned and Michelle glanced at him in concern, Flash tried to hit him with a few barbs, but nothing stuck. He was back in the fog.

"Peter?" May intercepted him in the kitchen when he came home. Peter stopped when she put her hands on his shoulders, ducking her head to look at his face. "How was school? Is everything okay?"

Peter swallowed, avoiding eye contact. "Yeah, everything's fine, May, I just… I'd really like to lie down."

"Okay," May nodded, still peering at him intently. "You promise you're okay?"

"I promise."

Peter walked to his room, collapsed into his bed, and rolled like he always did, so that he was facing the door.

_One day down. Something like forty more to go._

* * *

Peter had been hoping that school would get easier once he got used to it, but it didn't. If anything, it only got worse.

Other kids avoided him like he had the plague. Either because of the rumors about what had happened to him or because more and more people were rightly assuming he was Spiderman, he was never sure. But he guessed that neither helped make him seem approachable.

School felt like nothing but a chance for people to stare at him, whisper about him, point at him. He felt it everywhere he went, like they could see the things that had been done to him, seen the things he hadn't stopped since he'd gotten home. Accusation was written across every face he saw.

Even Ned and Michelle seemed awkward and unsure around him, as if afraid to set him off. He felt bad for making his friends carry his burden, for not being able to fall back into his old habits and mannerisms. They deserved the old Peter Parker.

He definitely didn't feel like the old Peter. He felt like a ghost, an echo, a shadow. A poor mockery of the person he used to be.

He tried to keep May from realizing how much he was struggling, but he knew that she saw the bags under his eyes, the way he retreated into his room at every opportunity. She was there every time he woke screaming from a night terror he didn't remember in the morning.

Weeks passed, and Peter felt himself slipping further and further into a hole, spiraling down into a pit of numbness and denial and sadness and fear. He didn't see the point of trying to drag himself out.

Not when he could hardly see the light.

"Peter, maybe we should talk when you come home from school today," May suggested as Peter was lacing up his shoes. "We could order in, eat together. I feel like you haven't been home in a while."

Peter shrugged. "You wanted me to go out more."

"I meant with Ned, Peter, and I thought that's where you were, but I called Mrs. Leeds the other night and she said you haven't been over to Ned's in nearly two weeks, and I just can't believe that you would lie to me like this, especially about something this important." All of the words came rushing out at once, like she'd been storing them up for the right moment.

Peter didn't say anything. He'd started going out after school after May had talked to him about how worried she was that he wasn't getting out enough. He'd started taking to the rooftops after school, just to be able to tell May he'd been somewhere other than home. He stuck to the shadows, stayed in low-crime areas. Didn't get involved in anything. He wore a ski mask in case someone caught sight of him. He knew that the Spiderman mask would be more comfortable and easier to see out of. Probably less likely to get him arrested, too. But he just hadn't been able to look at the thing since he'd come home, much less put it on.

May sighed. "Please, Peter, let's just talk when you get home, okay?"

"Okay."

He rode to school with the bodyguards like he was supposed to. He went to his classes like he was supposed to. He ate a bit of a sandwich, sat with Ned and Michelle, ran like a normal person in PE, sat through a Decathlon practice.

It was another numb day.

"Is it a bad day?" Michelle asked him at one point, and he nodded, because he didn't want to tell her the truth.

Numb days were the good days. The days when he didn't feel anything, but it was a good thing because it seemed like the only thing he seemed to feel these days was anxiety, fear, guilt, anger. About stupid things, little things.

Those were the bad days. The days when a slamming locker made his ears ring and he had to force himself not to cower beneath his desk when the biology teacher pulled out a pair of latex gloves. The days when everything felt like it was bombarding him at once, all his senses working in overdrive, like he was constantly looking for a threat, made worse by the fact that he knew there was still a threat out there somewhere. The days when he sometimes had to hold himself back from punching Flash as hard as he could, for no reason other than a dumb comment or smirk that he would have ignored months ago.

Numb days were good days. Even though they usually lead to bad nights.

He got through everything he was supposed to do, and Ned and Michelle were walking him out to the car, like they'd been doing for the past few weeks, when Peter realized he'd left his phone back in the practice room. May would kill him if he lost it. He waved Ned and Michelle ahead and went back to get it, only to see two new texts from May.

_Remember, we need to talk when you get home. _

_You're not in trouble. I'm just worried about you. _

Peter's shoulders slumped as the world came pressing down on his shoulders again.

_I'm just worried. _

_I'm just worried. _

_I'm just worried. _

He looked up at the window to the gymnasium, watched as rain began to fall and dance down the windowpane.

May didn't deserve it. The worry, the uncertainty. He was tearing her apart because he wasn't strong enough to just _get over it already_.

He should just keep doing what he was supposed to. He knew that. He should go meet Ned and Michelle. Get in the car. Listen to his aunt talk (because that's what their "talk" would really consist of). Go to bed. Get up. Go to school. Wash, rinse, repeat.

And yet, at the same time, the thought of it all, the expectation, the act he'd have to keep putting on, day after day, second after second, only for it to be not good enough anyway…

He wasn't sure he had the strength to do it anymore.

Instead of going out front to the car, Peter left his phone and backpack in the gym and stole through the school, sneaking out through a side entrance into the back alley. He made it onto a side street and started walking, any direction that didn't lead back to his street, his apartment, his aunt's worried smile.

He couldn't do it anymore.

The rain started coming down hard, soaking through Peter's clothes in a matter of minutes. His teeth chattered, and he remembered when they'd done the one experiment with freezing water. Seeing how long he had to be held in how cold of water before his heart rate slowed. He supposed they were also wondering if he'd lose a finger or two, which, thankfully, he hadn't.

They hadn't stopped there either.

The freezing rain seemed to quell some of his panic, and before he knew it, the fear had subsided, and the relieving numbness was back, muting his sense like a balm. He walked until he didn't think he could walk any longer, until his legs gave out beneath him and he dragged himself over to the corner of a building to prop himself up against.

_Whatever. _Peter closed his eyes. _If Ross wants to come for me, let him come. I don't give a shit anymore._

He felt very different when the hand touched his shoulder hours later. He opened his bleary eyes to see a figure standing over him, shining like a light under the glare of the streetlights. He was squinting, trying to see them better, when the figure tried to pull him up, metal encircling his wrists-

_Metal everywhere. Under his back holding his wrists ankles keeping him from moving. Slamming him into a metal chair, holding a metal chain around his neck. Metal jabbing into his skin, pain and helplessness-_

"NO!" Peter struggled against the figure. "Let me go, don't touch me!"

"Hey, settle down, easy, easy-"

"_Hold him still, quick now. Easy, kid, don't struggle. You keep doin' this you'll make this a lot harder on yourself than it needs to be. Up to you. Easy way or hard-"_

"Damn, kid, you're freezing." The voice was familiar, but not the way they were speaking. Concerned, almost gentle. "What the hell are you doing all the way out here?"

"Couldn't… Couldn't go home," Peter mumbled, still absently tugging away from the figure. "I can'… I don' want to…" His words, what he was asking for, got all tangled up in his mouth, until he wasn't even sure what he wanted. "Please help me, I don't want to go back. I jus' wanna go home. Please, please don't."

"Jesus, kid." The figure kneeled down next to him, and Peter tried to focus on the face. Dark hair, neatly trimmed beard. Piercing eyes, frown lines in the corners of his mouth. "You know who I am?"

"Mr. Stark?" Peter coughed, feeling like he was burning up. "'M sorry, I didn't want to…"

"I know, kid…" Stark sighed. "I'm gonna get you home, okay?"

Peter felt Stark lift him up under the knees, holding him against his chest carefully as he took off into the sky. Peter started to doze off again, but heard Stark asking Friday to tell Dr. Cho something… Something about him… His house….

* * *

When Peter woke up, he was staring at his ceiling. He was in his room, lying in his bed, covered in blankets. He sat up, sitting on the edge of the bed, and tried to remember how he'd gotten there… He remembered leaving the school, walking through the streets, freezing rain. Mr. Stark?

"Hey, look who's up."

Peter looked over and saw Mr. Stark leaning against his door frame. Now that he was listening, he could hear May talking to someone else in the kitchen.

"Hey," Peter said quietly. He kept his eyes on the floor.

"So." Stark crossed over to him, hands shoved casually in his pockets. He took a seat next to Peter on the bed. "You want to tell me what's been going on with you?"

"It's nothing," Peter rushed to explain. "I just went for a walk, and I guess I got lost, and cold, I guess…"

"You went for a walk. In the rain. When it was forty degrees outside."

Peter winced. "Yeah… not my smartest move… I guess…"

"No, yeah, I would agree." Stark took a breath. "What else has been going on, kid? May says you're not sleeping, you're not eating. She says you're having night terrors."

Peter flushed with embarrassment. "She told you about that?"

"Damn right she told me about that. And now I want to hear it from you. What is going on?"

"It's nothing, Mr. Stark, I'm-"

"Kid, I swear if you say you're fine, I'm going to put a fist through your wall. What has been-"

"I don't know!" Peter surged to his feet. "I don't know what's going on with me. Ever. Sometimes I feel like I can't breathe 'cause I'm so scared they're going to come back for me, and other times I just feel like I can't breathe for no reason. Sometimes I can't feel anything and it feels like nothing matters but that's better than anything else because anything else sucks. I just want it to go away, everything that happened, but it won't go away, because I see it and I hear it and I _feel _it every time I close my eyes or go to school or come home, and it won't go away and I just want it to _go away_…"

"Peter," May whispered from the doorway, eyes wide and watering. "Sweetie, it's okay…" She walked over, arms out, reaching for him.

"No, it's not okay, nothing's okay, _I'm not okay_!" Peter roared, shoving his aunt away. The breath left her chest in a rush and she fell backward, hitting Peter's bookshelf and sliding to the floor with a thud and crash.

For a moment, there was complete stillness, and no one seemed to know what to do. Then Dr. Cho broke the peace.

"Mrs. Parker," She crossed quickly to her side, helping her stand up.

Horror washed over Peter as he watched his aunt stand up, staring at him in shock, betrayal, fear, holding her arm tight to her body like she was hurt. How could he… He just… What would Ben…? Peter sunk to the ground, guilt wracking his body as he held his head in his hands and tears fell from his eyes.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," He moaned, just wishing he could die.

Someone knelt next to him, and he felt an arm wrap around his shoulders. A hand cupped his head, pulling it close to a broad chest. Peter resisted at first. He didn't deserve comfort, he didn't deserve someone to say that it was okay. It wasn't. It wasn't okay.

Nothing was okay.

"Peter, Peter, sweetie, it's okay," Aunt May whispered, still on the other side of the room. "It's okay, honey, I'm okay."

"C'mere, kid," Stark murmured, not allowing him to pull away. "I got you, you hear? I got you."

Peter gave up on struggling, letting Stark hold him on the floor as he cried. "It's not okay," Peter sobbed. "It isn't. It's not okay."

"I know, kid," Stark said quietly, pressing his cheek against the top of Peter's head. "I know it isn't. But it will be."

* * *

To Be Continued...


	4. Arrived

**Arrived**

"_With the nightmares, avoidance tendencies, outbursts, panic attacks… We're probably looking _

_at a severe case of PTSD."_

"_I'm just so worried about him. I don't think… I don't think there's anything I can do to help him here. And he needs help." _

"_He needs to be somewhere where someone can keep an eye on him. Somewhere with less stressors and triggers." _

"_It won't be for long, okay? I promise, a few weeks at the most. I'll come up and visit you every day that I can."_

Peter sat in the back of the black Audi, Happy at the wheel, his aunt riding beside him. He watched the scenery blur by on the way to upstate New York, watched as urban sprawl gradually gave way to greenery.

It wasn't long before the looming sprawl of the Avengers Base came into sight, and Happy pulled into the long driveway. He stopped just outside the main doors and went around back to get Peter's suitcase from the trunk.

Peter grabbed the door handle, but May stopped him. "Are you really okay with this? I don't want you to feel like you have to do anything you don't want to."

Peter didn't meet her eyes. "It's fine. I'll be fine here."

May was silent for a moment, and Peter looked up, reaching over to take her hand. "Really, May, I'll be okay."

May nodded. "Okay, then, let's go."

Happy lead them inside and up a few floors to Peter's room. "Right next to Vision, so, you know, have fun with that," He said, pushing the door open. "He's not big on privacy… or uh, doors. Just another thing you gotta get used to around here…"

Peter stepped into the room, expecting plain sheets, empty walls. He was surprised to see a bunk bed, with the same kind of black and white bedspread that was on his bed at home. There was a desk in the corner, with a top-of-the-line Stark computer waiting to be booted up. A chess board sat on top of a small coffee table between a few easy chairs. There were posters on the wall, a few like he had at home, but also a few new ones, of his favorite bands and movies.

"We all pitched in a little with the decorating," Happy admitted, a small smile on his face. "Pepper, especially, had a field day with all this stuff."

Peter turned to look at May. "Did you know?"

May looked as astounded as he felt. "I mean, Mr. Stark asked me what sort of things you would want in your room, but I never imagined it would be so… uncanny."

She was right. It didn't look exactly like his room back home, but it felt like it. It felt like home. Almost more than his real home did at the moment, because this space didn't come packed with painful memories.

Happy set his suitcase on the bed, and then nodded towards the hall. "Let me show you around a bit."

He lead them down the hall, pointing out each Avenger's room as they went. Peter learned that not many Avengers were actually all at the base at once. Wanda and Vision usually were, having nowhere else to go, and Dr. Banner stayed on site in order to work in his lab. Most of the others came and went. Clint Barton spent most of his time on the farm with his family when he was off assignments, and Natasha Romanoff was almost never off assignment.

"Likes to keep herself busy, that one," Happy commented wryly.

Thor had a room, but had only used it once or twice, as he was usually ruling in Asgard. Steve Rogers came by every few weeks, but spent a lot of time down in DC, talking to politicians. Sam Wilson and James Rhodes were usually around, though Sam left sometimes to accompany Steve to DC.

"And then we have Tony's room." Happy pointed to the one at the end of the hall. "Pepper and I have rooms down that way, along with Dr. Cho, Dr. Selvig, Director Fury… Who else?"

"Nick Fury is here?" Peter asked, the first he'd spoken since leaving the room.

"Well, his room is here. I'd be surprised if you actually see him around. He and Maria Hill are usually away on secret spy missions or whatever SHIELD agents do when they're not here."

He showed them the main floor, with a fully stocked kitchen, living room, and conference area. There was a swimming pool in the main residential building, and a small fitness room, which Happy claimed was nothing compared to the rec center.

"And then, through there, you'll find the Med Bay, and Tony and Banner's labs."

"This is a pretty big place," May commented, slightly uneasy.

"It's not as big as it feels," Happy assured her. "It feels large at first, but once you get used to it, it's a basic layout, not too complicated."

"Right," May wrung her hands around her purse handle nervously. "Is Mr. Stark around? I'd like to speak with him before… I'd just like to have a word."

"Of course," Happy held up a finger. "FRIDAY, would you let Mr. Stark know that Peter and Mrs. Parker have arrived."

"_Of course, sir,"_ A disembodied voice spoke from the ceiling.

"Is she… Irish?" Peter asked.

"Ah, you know, I really have no idea," Happy said. "She's the interface for the entire base, helps with communication, organization, the works."

An elevator at the end of the hallway opened up, and Tony Stark stepped out, wearing jeans and an oil-stained, long sleeved shirt. It was a far cry from the bougie playboy that was always seen in public.

"Peter, May…" Tony greeted them. He clapped Peter on the shoulder, gesturing out the window at the rest of the base. "So, what do you think of it?"

"It's really cool," Peter said honestly.

"You saw your room?" Tony glanced at Happy, and Happy nodded.

"Stuff's already up there, boss."

"Great," Tony paused, enduring the silence for mere moments. "Well, Peter, maybe you can make yourself useful in the lab for a couple hours until some of the others show up. I'm working on a couple projects that I wouldn't mind your input on."

May stopped them as he started to lead Peter toward the elevator. "Mr. Stark, could I please speak to you for a moment?"

Tony looked at her expression and then turned to Happy. "Haps, why don't you take Peter down to the lab and wait for us there. I'll meet you in a moment."

"Sure thing, Boss," Happy agreed, and waved Peter over to the elevator.

Peter was as awed by the lab as anything else in the base, if not more so. Tables were littered with blueprints and rough sketches, along with scraps and bits of prototypes that weren't finished. Larger models were set up around the edges of the room, surrounded by rings of spare pieces and tools left abandoned on the ground.

"Dude, this is so awesome," Peter gushed as he rushed over to the table, picking up one of the blueprints and comparing it to the pieces before him. It looked like some kind of new hand blaster, designed to be more energy efficient while delivering a more powerful blast. Peter couldn't understand all the language, but just trying to pick it apart felt like a puzzle, and he got a little thrill thinking about how this was probably how the original Ironman suit started. As a blueprint and a pile of pieces.

"Glad you like it," Tony said as he strode into the room. "That one needs a lot of work. I can't quite get the capacitor to transmit the energy needed. Not more than once, at least."

"What happens after the first time?"

Over Tony's shoulder, Peter saw Happy pointing discreetly at the multiple automatic fire extinguishers in the corner of the room. He gave Peter a pointed look, and then turned for the door.

"Give me a call if you need something, Boss."

"Yep, sure thing," Tony waved absently, and then leaned in conspiratorially to Peter. "You can't give him too much attention. Starts to give him an ego."

"Right." Peter looked around. "So, uh, what do you want me to do?"

Tony looked at Peter intently for a moment, and Peter could practically see the wheels turning in his head. "Well," He said suddenly, "Pretty much whatever you want. You can look over what I've got or mess with something. Maybe you can get it to work where I haven't. If it's on this table, I've basically given up at this point. So you really can't hurt anything."

Peter nodded, sifting through a few of the abandoned projects.

"But, what I really need you to do is look this over with me…" Tony pulled Peter over to one of the large suits, chest plate split open and internal mechanisms exposed, and Peter learned that what Tony was really looking for wasn't his input or ideas. He was really just looking for someone to talk at, so he'd have an excuse to work through it out loud.

Still, he was happy to stand there and let the words wash over his head as Tony pointed out different sections, rambled on about certain problems and their possible solutions, and poked through the guts of the machine, muttering quietly to himself.

"What if you reroute some of these wires through here?" Peter asked, pointing out a cluster.

Tony shook his head. "That limits the capacitor. Puts too much stress on it."

"Not if you dilute some of the energy with a muffler. Muffler before and then amplifier after the intersection."

Tony paused, seriously considering the suggestion. "That… is not half bad. I can work with that." He dove back into the fray armed with a blowtorch and set of pliers, quietly talking to himself again.

Hours passed by quickly in the lab, and Peter found himself feeling like he hadn't in months. He felt content. At ease. Comfortable. At some point, he just sat back and watched Tony while he worked, fiddling absently with a few scraps. The work room felt like a safe space, open and breathable. It felt like being in a bubble, and he never wanted to leave.

"_Sir, Steve Rogers and Sam Wilson have just arrived on site." _

"Good," Tony said, surfacing from the guts of the machine. "Has Vision started in the kitchen yet?"

"_Yes, sir, and it appears that Wanda is assisting him." _

"Oh, good, so dinner might taste like actual food today," Tony commented lightly. He caught Peter's confused expression and explained. "Vision can't actually taste food. He doesn't eat. So sometimes his concoctions can be a little bland. Or disgusting."

"But you still let him cook everything?"

"Not _everything_," Tony hedged. "He's just the only one that actually has the patience to handle a spoon and a pot of boiling water."

"Right," Peter grinned, imagining any of the other Avengers, bloody and grimy from recent battle, standing in an apron glaring fiercely at a still pot of water, wooden spoon in hand. What he wouldn't give to see that.

"Well," Tony stood, wiping his hands on a dirty rag. "We should get up there."

"For what?"

"What do you think?" Tony spread his arms. "Your welcome party."

* * *

It wasn't the crazy party that Peter had been apprehensively expecting. Vision and Wanda made fancy pasta for dinner, and Steve and Sam had brought home a small cake to celebrate Peter coming to stay with them. His stomach was tying itself in knots upon meeting the first Avenger, not in costume, not in battle, but just as a person. Once they got through the awkward introductions, he felt a little more comfortable, if a little out of place.

They ate in the living room. Tony and Peter shared a couch, Steve sat on the fireplace, and Wanda sat with Vision on the opposite chair, curled around him with her head on his shoulder. Sam sat on the floor next to Steve. He was laughing as he told them about picking up the cake.

"So we walk in, right, and the chick behind the counter glances at us for a second, and then she looks back, like, _so _wigged out. And Cap just goes, he just goes, 'Pickup for Captain America'," Sam threw his head back in laughter, one hand wrapped around his midsection. Steve smiled good-naturedly. "Like she didn't know who the hell we were."

"Hey, now, Wilson, gotta watch that language," Tony grinned, and Steve threw an arm up.

"One time, Stark! One time!"

"Uhhh…" Sam sighed, calming down. "So that was probably the best part of my day. I don't know about you." He chuckled, speaking softly. "_Pickup for Captain America._"

Steve reached over and shoved Sam jokingly with one hand, and Sam just waved him off, smiling. Steve turned to Peter. "So, Peter, you're still in high school, right?"

"Yeah," Peter confirmed. "Junior this year."

"Shit, kid." Sam looked at him intently. "When the hell did you get all mixed up in this life?"

"Well, uh…" Peter looked around and swallowed. "When I was fourteen, there was this spider… kind of a long story but I got bit and I ended up with these abilities. All the sudden I could do these things that I'd never been able to do before. I guess I just couldn't sit back and do nothing when there were people that needed help."

"When you were fourteen…? How old are you now?"

"Sixteen."

"So, the airport battle." Steve filled in. "You were fifteen?"

Peter hesitated. "Almost fifteen."

"Jesus, Tony." James Rhodes laughed as he entered the room, having caught the tail end of the conversation. "You really meant what you said when you said he was on the young side."

Tony stood. "Well, you know me, Rhodey, I never lie." The two embraced.

"Yeah, right, I'll believe it when I see it." He pointed to Peter. "Nice to see you, kid. Good to have you around."

"Thanks," Peter said, slightly starstruck.

They talked for another hour or so, and then Sam and Steve retreated to one of the conference rooms to talk, taking Rhodey with them. Wanda and Vision went to sit out on one of the balconies, and Tony said he was probably going to head back to the lab for a few hours.

"Um, if it's okay, I think I might just go to bed, Mr. Stark," Peter said when Tony started to make for the elevator, seemingly expecting Peter to follow him.

Tony didn't question him. "Sure, go ahead. Tell FRIDAY if you need anything. She'll call me."

Peter nodded. "Sure."

He headed up to his room, feeling lighter than he had since he could remember. He got dressed in a pair of sweats and brushed his teeth and then settled into his bed, pulling out one of the books he'd packed into his backpack.

Maybe this was all he'd needed. Maybe he'd just needed to get away from the house, away from where it all went down. Maybe, with all of the memories out of sight, they'd slip out of mind, too.

Maybe it was all behind him, finally.

He fell asleep with the light on, book steepled on his chest. At one point in the night, he awoke, startled, to someone pulling the book off his chest and the covers out from under him. He protested blearily, confused, until Tony put a hand on his shoulder and quieted him with a whisper.

"Just me, kid," Tony pulled the covers up over him, and Peter relaxed, slumping against the pillow. "You can go back to sleep."

Tony's hand brushed lightly over his hair, just once, and then was gone. The light went out with a blink, and the door was left partially closed. Peter was facing the door, but for once, he didn't check if he could see an exit from where he was. He didn't make sure that his shoes were ready to go, that there was something sharp or heavy closeby in case he needed a weapon. He didn't listen for the sounds of picks in the lock or rubber soles on the floor.

He just slept.

* * *

Peter blinked awake the next morning feeling confused. He sat up in bed, looking at the sunlight cheerfully lighting up the floor, and couldn't shake the feeling that something was out of place. Something was different. Off.

He got up and picked out a pair of jeans, throwing on the same shirt from yesterday. He crept down the stairs, mindful of the other sleeping inhabitants, only to realize when he got downstairs that it didn't matter.

Because everyone was already up.

Peter squinted at the clock above the microwave as he maneuvered past Wanda cooking eggs on the stove. A few minutes after seven.

"Does everyone here _always _get up this early?" Peter groaned, and Wanda smiled.

"Pretty much," Her accent was soft. "Sometimes James sleeps in until eight thirty or so, but Tony likes to joke that it is just his 'old man' genes kicking in." Peter laughed, and Wanda looked pleased. "Would you like some eggs?"

"Sure."

Tony found Peter after breakfast and lured him back into the workroom for more tinkering. Peter spent his time down there alternating between fiddling with Stark's abandoned projects and listening to the genius ramble on about the ones he was still passionate about.

Towards lunch, Dr. Banner came in with a tablet, asking for Tony's opinion on something. The two exchanged crazy complicated science terms that flew way over even Peter's advanced chemistry and physics knowledge until they seemed to reach some sort of resolution. Dr. Banner introduced himself to Peter and offered to show him around his lab.

Peter looked at Tony with wide, pleading eyes.

"Well, go on," Tony shooed him with a wrench. "You're not on a leash."

Peter gleefully followed Bruce (as the scientist asked Peter to call him) to his lab down the hall a ways. He showered the older man with questions about the kind of research he conducted, what areas he was interested in, how he formulated all of his theories and experiments.

As Bruce held the door to the lab open for Peter, he felt a chill race down his spine. It was definitely a far cry from Tony's garage-like set up. The concrete floor was mostly covered with thin plastic sheets, and the metal work tables spread over the floor were littered with beakers and microscopes rather than scraps and blueprints.

There were no tables covered in paper, no cuffs or restraints, but some of the instruments lying on the tables were the same. Tubes. Syringes. Scalpels.

Peter walked over to one table that housed a cage full of rats, and shuddered. He pushed away the sudden urge to rip the door away from the cage and set the animals free, and turned to Bruce. "What are these for?"

"We're working on a formula for new medicine to combat the spread of infectious diseases. We're working on a small scale for the moment, with non-lethal illnesses. Once these trials prove successful, we'll move on to different diseases, more like the ones that affect humans."

Peter nodded, and Bruce continued to show him around. He let Peter assist with a few of his experiments, and Peter felt himself relax the longer he spent in the lab. It really wasn't that different from Tony's lab, just with chemicals and diseases rather than wires and bolts.

Lunch was a more muted affair. He ate sandwiches with Pepper and Tony out on the balcony, enjoying the view of the forest beyond the hanger. Then it was back to work in the lab with Tony, fiddling with pieces and trying his best to be helpful when Tony needed a listening ear.

Peter was staring down at a few wires, connecting them to the initial power source. The goal was to increase the speed of the charge through the wires without damaging the capacitor, therefore increasing the power of the circuit without affecting run time. Tony had given up on a mechanical solution, claiming that it was a problem that could be solved through other means, but Peter still thought it would be cool if he could figure it out.

He was crossing a few of the wires when it happened. There must have been a break in the insulation, a weakness or chink in the protection that had been overlooked. When Peter connected the wires, instead of lighting up the charge sensor, like it should have, there was an audible _SNAP _and a feeling like a hundred bees stinging his hand up to his forearm all at once.

Peter shouted in shock, dropping the circuit and backing away, cradling his hand. Tony dropped what he was doing and came over, asking if Peter was okay, but he couldn't hear him, couldn't see him, couldn't move.

"_Don't let him move." _

"Peter, what's wrong? Did you hurt yourself?"

_Lying on the table, watching the needle move closer and closer, struggling not to move, not to scream._

"What's going on, Peter?"

_He couldn't take it, cried out and flinched away, tried to thrash off the table, despite the metal and leather restraints that were fixing him to the surface. _

"_Dammit, Elliot, I need him still."_

"_What do you want me to do? Why don't you just give him something if it's so important?" _

"C'mon, kid, just breathe. I'm right here, okay? Just focus on me."

"_It's just as important that he not have anything in his system for this experiment." _

_A leathery hand grabbed his chin, forced him to look right into deadened eyes. "Do you want to go blind? Is that what you want?" _

_He pulled away, crying, unable to stop, so scared, so scared, couldn't they see-_

"_How about this?" Elliot cranked the dial up and pressed the button, making Peter jerk on top of the table. He gasped at the shock that coursed through his system, right down to the pins and needles in his fingers and toes. _

"It isn't real, Peter, wherever you are. Just breathe, kid, just-"

"_How exactly does that solve the problem?" _

"_You'll see." Elliot grinned, leaning close. He hit the dial again, holding it until Peter's screams went hoarse, and then he released it. "Now, Doc, I think you'll find him a lot more cooperative." _

"_All the same, get over here and hold his head." _

_Large hands gripped his temples, pressing his skull into the unyielding metal. The needle crept closer and closer to his eye and he tried to scream but all that came out was a whimper and he wanted to close his eyes but couldn't because they were taped open and he couldn't move couldn't stop couldn't get away-_

Peter gasped, surging away from the hands on his shoulders. Tony let him go, holding his hands high as Peter reached for the closest weapon he could, seizing a wrench off the ground. He was ready to throw it when Tony suddenly shouted.

"Hey, hey, Peter, easy! It's me, it's Tony. C'mon, kid, I know you know me."

Peter hesitated, panting, Elliot dancing in front of his eyes and fear and panic clouding his judgement. All the same, the insane urge to attack and run was gone, drained from him like sand slipping through fingers. His hand went numb and the wrench slipped from it, clanging to the floor.

Tony crept closer, first carefully sliding the wrench away, and then putting a hand on Peter's shoulder. He didn't say anything, just waited for Peter to talk. Peter looked up at his mentor, eyes filling with tears.

"I thought it was done," He admitted in a broken voice. "I thought, coming here… It was all over."

He broke down, and Tony pulled him close. Peter held onto Tony like a lifeline while he shook with the aftershocks of panic. "I just want it to be over."

"I know, Peter," Tony said gently. "Believe me, I know."

They sat for another few minutes, until Peter's breathing evened out, and he felt the numbness he always felt after these attacks returning, which only scared him more. Nothing was different here; nothing had changed. If staying at the base wasn't going to fix him, what was the point?

What was the point of anything?

"Peter?" Tony said quietly, after minutes of silence. "Where's your head at?"

Peter shook his head. "I think… I think I want to go lie down."

He started to stand, but Tony stopped him, holding onto his wrist and pulling him back down. "Wait. Not yet." Peter sat and Tony shifted so that they were both sitting against one of his enormous toolbox chests.

Peter waited uncertainly, not sure what to expect from Tony. He felt like his mentor was building up to ask him to talk about it, when that was the last thing he wanted to do.

Instead, Tony sighed. "Peter, do you know how the first alien invasion on Earth went down?"

Peter looked at Tony. "Yeah. I mean, the basics. The Chitauri invaded New York, lead by Loki, trying to take over Earth and enslave the human race. Nick Fury assembled a team of the most powerful people on the planet, putting them together in order to defeat him. Which worked."

He'd been around ten at the time, and he remembered hunkering down in the basement of their apartment building with all the other families in their building, the screams and whimpers that split the air every time the building shook under the assault. He remembered the tension in Ben's face and the way May didn't let go of him once, even hours after the attack was over.

"Yep," Tony agreed. "Only it's nearly impossible to realize how it really felt to be there unless, you know, you _were _there. Imagine a city full of innocent people, all screaming for help, all terrified, in danger. Dying. Imagine knowing that it would only get worse, spread to the rest of the globe unless you stopped it in that city. You and a few other special people, super strong or super fast or super good at kickin' ass."

Peter was silent, soaking in Tony's words.

"That kind of pressure… It was astronomical. During the battle, I didn't feel it that much, adrenaline and all that, I guess. But after… After, it hit me like a brick wall."

Peter turned to look at his mentor, who was staring at the far wall, with a dark look in his eyes.

"I couldn't go anywhere without hearing the screams of those people we couldn't save that night, wondering, _if I'd just been a little faster, a little smarter_… It ate me up. The expectation from all of those people, that I was somehow the answer to everything. The person who was going to save all of them. It… broke me."

"How?" Peter asked, and Tony turned to look at him.

"I started drinking. Heavily, which I don't recommend no matter how old you are. I lost myself in projects and pretended that I didn't notice the panic attacks and anxiety. I ignored the problems, I ignored their causes, until I felt like there was no way it could get any worse. Those were some dark days, Peter. Dark days."

"So…" Peter swallowed. "How did you, you know… Move past it all?"

"It wasn't quite that simple," Tony said. "Pepper helped. A lot. Having someone to talk to, someone with no expectations for me other than to _be _me. I talked to Dr. Cho eventually, figured out what was going on."

Peter looked away, sensing this was starting to turn around on him.

"PTSD," Tony said. "What a kick in the pants." He tossed a scrap of metal across the room, listening as it crashed against the far wall. "There's no quick solution, no magic fix. No way out but through." He looked at the young teen next to him. "Peter, has anyone actually talked to you about… all this?"

Peter shrugged. "May said I could talk to her whenever I needed to, but it always just seemed to make her sad to hear about everything. And it never actually seemed to help."

Tony nodded. "Makes sense. Hearing about the stuff you went through was probably shocking to her. Scary. But I mean, has anyone explained to you what PTSD is? What it means?"

"Uh, no? I mean, I know, like, soldiers get it a lot. I know it has to do with anxiety and stuff. Depression."

"Yeah, but obviously it doesn't only affect soldiers." He reached over, poking Peter in the chest. "You, sir, have PTSD. Post traumatic stress disorder. It's the name for a condition of continuing fear and trauma after the actual danger has passed. It's a medical thing, a real problem, and it is _not _an indication of strength or weakness. It can happen to anyone."

Peter looked away, looping his arms around his knees. "I guess."

"It's a normal reaction to a completely horrific, abnormal situation, and it isn't your fault." Tony put a hand on Peter's arm, waiting until he made eye contact. "You hear me, kid? None of this is your fault."

Peter nodded, feeling a little knot loosen in his chest.

Tony let his head fall back against the metal cabinet, looking up at the high ceiling. "I just don't want you to get to that point, where you feel like there's no one you can talk to. You can talk to me, okay? I mean it. _Anything_. 'Cause I've been there, and I know what it feels like… and I know how much it sucks."

He looked over at Peter, assessing him as he sat there quietly. "Okay, so now it's your turn. You want to tell me what you were feeling when you had the panic attack?"

"Scared. I guess the wires shocked me and all of the sudden, it was like I… I was back _there_ and I could see it and hear them talking…"

Tony nodded. "It's called a flashback. Have you had those before?"

"A couple times, I guess."

"And what do you feel now?"

Peter hesitated. "Nothing," He admitted in a whispery voice, his eyes going misty.

"Nothing," Tony repeated. "What do you mean?"

"I don't know," Peter swiped a hand over his eyes, sniffing hard. "Sometimes I just don't feel anything. It feels like I'm not even in my own body, if that makes sense. Like I'm seeing everything happen to someone else."

"It could be disassociation," Tony filled in. "That happened to me a lot. Still does, sometimes."

"So what do you do?"

"Well, I usually call my therapist and sign up for a few sessions ASAP. But beyond that, there are a few tricks that my doctor taught me. Slow breathing and focusing techniques that help."

"Do you think… you could show me?"

"Sure," Tony agreed. "First, close your eyes." Peter complied. "Now, I want you to take a slow breath in, through your nose. Hold for three seconds, and then pretend you have a little straw in your mouth and blow all that air out through the straw. Take as long as you want."

Tony lead Peter through a few more breaths and when he opened his eyes again, he looked more grounded. "Thanks."

"A therapist could give you a lot more tools. Ways to focus when the panic hits, things you can do to ride it out."

"Could they help me get rid of them?"

"Eventually. Peter, what you have to understand is that _this_, trauma, it isn't like a broken bone or a bruise. Especially not for you. It doesn't heal linearly, and there's no set treatment or quick fix that works for everyone. You might be able smash a few ribs and be up and walking the next day, but this is a whole different monster. It'll knock the feet out from anyone." He glanced over at Peter. "Okay, I've said what I need to say. Now it's up to you. We can stay, talk as long as you need. Or we can just stay and work. Or you can go sleep or set something on fire or whatever it is you kids do nowadays for fun."

Peter let out a small laugh and stood up. He glanced at the clock. "I think I'll just head up for a bit before dinner."

Tony reached out a hand and Peter hauled him up. Tony groaned as he straightened and put a hand on his back. "Damn, these floors wreak hell on my spine." He clapped a hand on Peter's shoulder. "Sure, thing, kid. You need anything…" He trailed off and Peter nodded.

"I know. I'll call."

Tony nodded. "Good. Now get outta here so I can get some work done." His words were scolding but his tone was light, and Peter smiled before ducking away to the elevator.

His plan was to hide in his room for a few hours until dinner was served, but as he was walking down the hallway to his room, he caught sight of Wanda on the balcony off her room, and he heard the sound of light music dancing over the breeze through the open door.

Before he was really conscious of it, his feet were turning him away from the hallway and through the open door. He paused just before the threshold of the deck, knocking lightly on the doorframe.

The music stilled and Wanda glanced over, smiling when she saw it was him.

"Mind if I join you?" Peter asked, and Wanda shook her head.

"Of course not." She waved him over to a chair. He took a seat and she started again, her fingers strumming lightly over the strings of the guitar. It was a simple melody, only a few alternating patterns, but it was sweet and gentle.

Peter looked out at the sun, just beginning to dip towards the treeline.

Wanda's fingers stopped again and she rested her hands atop the guitar, letting the last note die softly in the quiet afternoon air.

"How do you like it here, so far?"

Peter shrugged. "It's different. Definitely not Queens. I don't know, I guess… It already kinda feels like home."

Wanda smiled and nodded. "I felt the same way, when I came here. The place where my brother and I lived before this… it was not kind. I thought of it as home, I suppose, because it's where we lived, and it was the first stable place we'd been after years of living on the streets. And yet, after being here for only a few days… I understood what home should feel like."

Peter nodded. Wanda gazed at him for another moment before looking back down at her guitar, placing her fingers over the strings. She started playing again, that same melody, this time playing with a few chords here and there to enrich the sound.

They stayed on the balcony as the air cooled and the light slowly faded, until FRIDAY informed them that dinner was ready.

* * *

To Be Continued...


	5. Setback

**Setback**

Peter was getting used to the complexity of "family dinners" at the base. Essentially, they were just free-for-alls, with someone making the main dish and people getting out anything else they wanted. Some people ate at the table, others took food into the living room, some ate while they cooked more food.

Breakfast was usually eaten separately, and lunch was the same, but most dinners were eaten together and lasted for hours. It was almost like the dinner parties May had taken Peter to a few times, except this was more relaxed. Like a family reunion.

Which, really, was exactly what it was. Half an hour into the dinner, Natasha and Clint showed up, and everyone shouted excitedly, rushing over to greet them. Clint was enthusiastic, hugging Wanda and shaking hands with Steve and Tony, and Natasha, while more reserved, still offered grudging smiles for those who came over.

"How long are you off assignment?" Steve asked from behind the counter, towel slung over his shoulder and stirring something on the frying pan.

"Actually, we're not off assignment just yet," Natasha revealed, looking over at Clint, who nodded and narrowed his eyes mysteriously. "Job just brought us in town, figured this was about as safe a safe house as we could get around here."

"What kind of job brought you here?" Rhodey asked, crossing the kitchen for a beer from the fridge. Peter jokingly reached for it as he passed came back, and Rhodey dodged the grab. He playfully pushed Peter's head with a smirk, ruffling his hair. Peter laughed at Tony's warning expression at the exchange.

"The kind we can't talk about," Natasha said in answer to Rhodey's question, speaking over whatever Clint was opening his mouth to say. She fixed him in a steely gaze, and Clint raised his arms in protest, jaw dropping in mock surprise.

"Nat, I'm shocked. You think I'd reveal privileged information? To this bunch of rapscallions?"

"Yeah, the fact that you called them 'rapscallions' does not inspire confidence," Natasha monotoned, with the look of a person who has endured too much for their years.

"Better lighten up, Romanoff, or you'll be gray before your time," Tony quipped, filling a glass from the collection of bottles by the cabinet.

"What, like you?" Natasha smirked.

"Please," Steve shot back. "We all know it wouldn't be before his time."

Everyone laughed, prompting more barbs and jabs to be thrown across the room. Peter soaked it all in, laughing with the rest of them. He wanted to capture the moment, live within it forever so that he wouldn't have to go back to feeling lost, trapped, afraid.

But as good as he felt in the beginning of the night, it didn't last. The anxiety started creeping in sometime around eight thirty, when almost everyone had finished eating and they were all talking around the fireplace. It had been okay when everything had been loud and boisterous, enough stimulus to drown out everything else. But now that it was calm, he could feel the darkness outside. Felt how there could be anyone out there, just waiting for them all to go to bed, for him to separate from everyone else.

He fell silent the longer it went on, staring down at his hands and trying to keep the tension from showing on his face. He was sitting on the couch, watching the fire, absently listening to Sam and Clint arguing about whether Steve or T'Challa would win in a fight.

"Vibranium shield, and lots more years of experience," Sam stated. "That's all I'm saying."

"Uh, vibranium _suit_, and literally the ruler of an African kingdom. That's all _I'm _saying."

"Hey," Tony said softly, sitting down next to Peter. "You doing all right?"

Peter nodded reflexively, and then, remembering their earlier conversation, shrugged.

"You want to go outside?"

Peter shook his head, thinking of the shadows, the things that hid within them.

"Okay. Just let me know." Tony turned, joining back the conversation, one arm draped over the back of the couch behind Peter.

The company petered away, going upstairs one by one, until, at midnight, the only people still up were Sam, Natasha, Steve, Tony, and Peter.

"Alright, Nat, time to spill. It's just the A team here now. What are you and Barton really doing back?" Sam pried, a half-empty bottle of beer dangling from his hands.

"I really can't tell you," Natasha said simply.

"Okay, but it's gotta be a local thing, right? Is it a mercenary? A foreign spy? You takin' down a drug cartel?"

Natasha didn't react, staring at him with a look of annoyed amusement on her face. Sam continued guessing, throwing out wilder stories every time Natasha rolled her eyes.

"It's a drug mule. You're hunting down a drug mule. _You're_ the drug mule."

Peter actually chuckled, despite the fact that it had steadily been getting more and more difficult to breathe the more he acknowledged the fact that the night would soon be over and he'd have to go to his room. In the dark. Alone.

"King T'Challa has a secret daughter that's been kidnapped and you're hunting down her captors. You've received a message from alien ships and you have to bring them an offering of fresh pigs in order to stop an intergalactic war. Some monster escaped SHIELD and you've been tasked with bringing it in."

Steve groaned, running a hand over his eyes. "Stop, Sam, you're embarrassing yourself."

But Peter had been watching Natasha, and he'd seen her eyes flick over to him when Sam had thrown out his last guess.

…_a monster escaping SHIELD… _

She held his gaze for only a split second before looking away, throwing a smile over her face at Sam's antics. Peter stared at her for another few seconds, panic freezing him in place.

_What if he wasn't as safe as people kept telling him? _

"Okay, everyone, I'm calling it a night." Tony stood up and arched his back. He looked down at Peter. "Time for you, too, junior."

"Right," Peter whispered, standing up. "Night, everybody."

Sam, Steve, and Natasha all murmured the same to him, watching him go with looks of concern on their faces.

Tony walked Peter up to his room and paused. "So, I'm right down the hall. Call if you need anything, okay?"

Peter nodded. He turned and opened his door, starting to shut it behind him when Tony stopped him with a hand on the doorknob. "I mean it, kid. Anything."

He stood for another moment, and then walked away, letting Peter shut the door behind him. Immediately, Peter went over to his windows and pulled the blinds, hands trembling as he did so. Then, he stumbled back to the door and turned the lock. He reached for his desk chair and shoved it under the handle. He felt marginally better once he'd barricaded himself in.

He lowered himself onto his bed and pulled his feet up, hugging his knees like he was six years old again, waiting for Mommy and Daddy to come home. He tried to breathe, to think rationally, but it was hard when all he could hear was Sam's words and all he could see was Natasha glancing at him.

Was it just a coincidence? Was it all in his head?

Or had Natasha and Clint really been sent to take him back?

After what felt like forever of him shaking and hyperventilating on his bed, exhaustion began to claim him. He fought it, winning for over an hour, before he slowly slumped over onto the pillows and fell into an uneasy sleep.

His dreams were choppy and disconnected at first, too blurry and fast moving to distinguish one scene from another. But he saw the table, felt the cuffs. He dreamed of smashing glass, people fighting, someone grabbing him and dragging him away in the chaos. He looked up, saw red hair flashing under the street lights overhead.

"_Natasha, please,"_ _He croaked, tugging feebly away, but her grip was like iron. "Please, don't." _

_She turned, a long knife gleaming in one hand, eyes glowing like lasers in the darkness. When she drove the knife down, she passed through the darkness, and into the light, and suddenly, it wasn't Natasha trying to kill him. _

_It was Tony. _

Tony had been sleeping damn peacefully when the shouting woke him up. He groaned as he blinked blearily awake, thinking that he was going to kill whoever was getting into it at three in the goddamn morning, wasn't this something that could _wait?-_

Suddenly, the voice registered, and a wave of cold washed over him. It was a kid. His kid, and he definitely wasn't arguing with anyone. He was screaming for help.

"_Mr. Stark, it appears that Peter seems to be in distress-" _

"Yep, FRIDAY, got that," Tony snapped, throwing back the covers.

"Tony?" Pepper whispered in confusion as he ran out into the hallway.

He heard more doors opening down the hallway as he tried the doorknob. It didn't give. He rammed his shoulder against it, his heart breaking at the terrified crying of the kid behind it. He'd be damned if he didn't get in there _right fucking now_-

"Tony, what the hell is going on?" Steve asked, coming down the hallway with his shield in hand.

"I don't know," Tony admitted tightly. He shouldered the door again, pounding it in frustration when it wouldn't give. Damn past him for reinforcing all the doors and locks.

"Here, move," Steve ordered, and Tony stepped aside. Steve lifted his foot and drove it into the door, right beside the handle. It shuddered, but it took another two, three barrages and wasn't going down. "What did you do to this door, Tony?"

"They're all reinforced in case the base is attacked."

"Perhaps I can be of assistance," Vision spoke up behind them, and approached the door, phasing out so that he went straight through it. There was the sound of something scraping across the floor and a click as the lock was disengaged, and then Tony barrelled through the door.

There, on the bed, was his kid, thrashing on top of the covers like he was being attacked. Tony ran over and saw that Peter's eyes were open and glassy, even as he screamed at nothing.

"No, please, don't, I can't go back, I can't!"

"Peter, wake up!" Tony shouted, grabbing his shoulders and pulling him up. Immediately, Peter began struggling against him, which proved to be a challenge because the kid was friggin' _strong_. "C'mon, kid, it isn't real. You gotta wake up!"

Peter lashed out, his hand flying towards Tony's head. Tony surged backward but didn't evade the attack entirely. Peter's hand caught him in the throat, and he went reeling back, choking and gasping.

"Tony!" Steve shouted, running over and grabbing hold of the thrashing teen. Peter cried with new energy when he felt Steve take hold of his arms, holding him down.

"No…" Tony choked out, stumbling over. He cleared his throat, shoving the pain away. "Peter, you have to breathe. C'mon, like we were talking about, kid, just breathe."

Steve had one arm across Peter's chest, not hurting him, just holding him still, but Peter's eyes were rolling with fear. Instead of slowing, his breathing was speeding up, his gasps becoming wheezes.

"You gotta let him go," Tony said. Steve tried to protest, but Tony spoke over him. "Let him go, Rogers. Just do it."

Steve let go, and Peter started scrambling backward, towards the wall. Tony caught him, pressing two hands to the sides of Peter's face. "Peter, it's me. It's Tony. I'm right here, okay? I'm right here, Peter. I've got you. I've got you."

He kept murmuring softly as Peter stopped moving, his cries eased to whimpers, and awareness slowly dawned in his eyes. As it did, tears came, running down his face with fresh vigor, and Tony pulled him in, folding him into his arms.

"You're okay, Peter. You're right here. Right here with me."

Tony could feel through his clothes how sweaty and clammy the kid was, how hard and fast his heart was pounding, how badly he was shaking, even now. He held him tightly, waiting for his breathing to even out. It didn't. If anything, the kid started breathing faster.

"I can't- I- I can't-" Peter stuttered. "M-Mr. Stark, I can't breathe."

"Look at me, Peter." Tony pulled back so he could look the kid in the eyes. "Come on, we were doing this earlier, right? Just like that, okay? Take a breath, hold it, blow it out slowly."

Peter followed his example as well as he could, fighting through the panic and fear that made him want to gasp for air. Finally, after what felt like hours, he was able to take a full, deep breath, and release it slowly. He dropped his head against Tony's shoulder.

"I'm sorry," He whispered. "I'm so sorry."

"For what?" Tony asked. "You did fine. You can't control it, you didn't ask for it. You have nothing to be sorry for."

Peter nodded, keeping his eyes shut.

"One request?" Tony said. "No more locks. Like, ever, okay?"

Peter let out a breathless chuckle. "Okay."

"Do you want something to help you sleep? We can get Cho up, no problem."

"No," Peter said quickly. "It's fine, I don't want to bother her."

"It wouldn't be a bother to her, son," Steve interjected gently. "She's got a room here for a reason."

"No, I know, I just…" Peter shrugged awkwardly. He felt flushed with self-consciousness, even more so because half a dozen people were trying to peer into the room through his bedroom door.

Wanda stepped forward. "If you want to sleep, Peter, I can help you sleep. No nightmares, no fear."

Peter swallowed, looking up at her. "You can knock me out? With your… brain stuff?"

Wanda smiled as she walked toward his bed and sat on the edge next to Tony. "More or less. It won't hurt, I promise. It will be a good sleep."

Peter glanced at Tony as if looking for permission or confirmation, and Tony nodded easily, clapping a hand on Peter's leg. "Sounds like a pretty good deal to me."

Peter took a deep breath and nodded. "Okay. So, do you want me to lie down, or…?"

"It's no matter." Wanda reached up, placing her hands gently on either side of Peter's face. She closed her eyes, and red energy swirled around her fingertips. Peter's eyes rolled to the back of his head and he went limp as Tony and Wanda gently eased him down onto the mattress.

"So, he'll be good until morning?" Steve stood protectively over Peter's bed as Tony pulled up the covers.

"Should be," Wanda confirmed. "Might be a little more, or a little less, but he'll wake up with no nightmares."

"Good." Tony stood, taking one last look at the kid before turning to usher everyone out of the room. "Kid deserves a goddamn break."

* * *

AN: Congratulations, if you got through all this! I thought about spacing out some of the updates, but I've been wanting to post this story for a while, so I figured, _to heck with it_, let's just post what I have. Obviously, it isn't finished quite yet (poor Peter hasn't been comforted enough for my liking), but I make no promises as to when there will be a continuation.

Let me know what you think about it, yay or nay.

(Hopefully) To Be Continued...


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